


The Pardon

by NineBrightShiners



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-09 12:11:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 45,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14715806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineBrightShiners/pseuds/NineBrightShiners
Summary: Haymiss AU. Nine months after Katniss returns to District 12, she is summoned to the Capitol for her official pardon. She is accompanied by Haymitch. As underlying feelings are forced to the surface, choices need to be made.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This story was originally posted on fanfiction.net. Now that it’s completed I thought I’d post it here too.  
> I hope you enjoy the story :)
> 
> I have posted several Haymitch/Katniss music videos on YouTube on my channel, Vogue Elf. Please check them out if you're interested. Several of my vids are for The Hunger Games only, but most are AU vids using films other than THG. For the THG ones I particularly recommend 'Oh Miss Believer' and 'Tango', and for my AU vids I recommend 'Kiss Me' and 'Nightcall' (which also uses THG).

****

**Chapter One**

_Haymitch_  
Plutarch gone, the hovercraft takes off. They sit in silence until they're back among the clouds.  
Katniss stirs, looks at him for the first time in an hour. 'So, why are you going back to Twelve?' Her voice is blank, giving no hint of what she hopes his answer will be, if she has any hopes at all. There are dark shadows under her eyes, and her cheekbones stick out unnervingly. The doctors told him she hasn't eaten in two days.  
'They can't seem to find a place for me in the Capitol either,' he says at last.  
She absorbs this without reaction. He wonders what she's thinking, if she resents him for coming with her, or if she's relieved she won't be alone. Or maybe she isn't thinking anything.  
Finally she says, 'You have to look after me, don't you? As my mentor?'  
He shrugs. It had been his choice to come. It was the only way he could see to get her out of the Capitol, back home to 12. Whether he'll manage to look after her properly is doubtful; he knows himself too well to feel any assurance on that account, so he says nothing.  
She swallows. 'My mother's not coming back.'  
'No,' he says, hating himself, looking away as a suggestion of grief wells in her eyes. He waits a minute, then reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out an envelope, passing it across to Katniss. She turns it over in her hands, tracing the letters of her name on the paper. He explains that her mother is in 4, helping start up a hospital. She stares down at the envelope, saying nothing, and he wishes he had a message from her mother to give her, words that weren't hidden away in a letter. But all Mrs Everdeen had said when she'd given him the envelope was a choked, 'Thank you. Look after her,' before she'd hurried away, heading for the nearest train out of the Capitol.  
'You know why she can't come back,' he says at last, gently. Immediately he feels a sting of regret as Katniss's face freezes over. He pauses. 'Do you want to know who else won't be there?'  
'No. I want to be surprised.'  
She's staring at the letter, and doesn't see his pained smile at her retort. Getting up, he goes to the mini refrigerator and gets out a ready-made sandwich, passing it to her. 'Eat.'  
She looks at it dully. After a minute, sensing that he won't stop standing over her until she starts eating, she picks it up and takes a bite. He retreats to his seat, watching covertly to make sure she finishes the sandwich. Once she's eaten, she closes her eyes. He can tell she's not sleeping, but lets her be.  
When the alert flashes up saying that they'll be landing in two hours, he gets up to go through every compartment on the hovercraft, checking in cupboards, under seats, until he's found every last bottle of liquor, stowing them away in a bag. Hardly anyone lives in 12 at the moment, and liquor will be impossible to come by. He intends to be prepared.

...

They land at night. Half the houses have lights in the windows, including his own and Katniss's. They walk across the snow together in silence. Her front door is unlocked, and he closes it behind him as she treads down the corridor to the orange glow coming from the kitchen. He moves to the threshold, sees Katniss already sitting in the rocking chair before a small fire in the grate, clutching her mother's letter. She's staring into the flames, oblivious to his presence.  
'Well, see you tomorrow,' he says. He waits for several long seconds, but she doesn't look up. At last he turns away, bottles clinking in his bag, leaving her to the silence.  
In his living room, he manages a call to Greasy Sae, telling her they've arrived, thanking her for the fire in Katniss's grate.  
'Poor girl,' says Sae. 'I'll be there tomorrow morning, like we agreed, and every morning and evening after.'  
He thanks her again and rings off, staring into his empty fireplace, wondering what will happen now.


	2. Chapter 2

****

**Chapter Two**

_Katniss_  
I sit in the rocking chair in the kitchen, getting up only for brief trips to the bathroom just down the hall. If I stay to one room I can pretend the rest of the house isn't empty. The only person who comes is Greasy Sae, accompanied by her small granddaughter. She cooks me meals and watches me eat them; which is just as well or I might forget. I haven't changed my clothes since I got here.  
Sometimes the phone rings on and on but I never answer. When I get up from my chair I pad softly in my socks, taking care not to look into any of the empty rooms.  
One afternoon the fire burns out. I sit and stare at the empty grate. A cold draft blows in from the hallway, scattering the ashes. It's strong; I'm shivering under my blanket. Greasy Sae must have left a window open after airing the rooms. A few flakes of snow drift into the kitchen and settle on the floor. They don't melt. I imagine them piling up and up, filling the rooms so they're no longer empty, covering up the ghosts and smothering the memories, laying them to rest.  
I imagine myself opening all the windows, urging the snow inside. I grip the arms of the chair and lever myself upright.

…

_Haymitch_  
He's not sure how many days have gone by since he left Katniss alone in front of the fireplace in her kitchen. He hasn't seen her since then, confined to his living room in a blur of alcohol, though in his brief periods of clarity he's watched Greasy Sae carry meals in and out of her house, trailed by her granddaughter. One afternoon he wakes to a room filled with the cold harsh light that means heavy snow. For several hours he lies staring up at the ceiling, not thinking about very much at all, struggling to keep nausea at bay. As the light starts to darken, he's filled with a sense of foreboding, a tense alertness that presses on his chest and won't shift.  
But more pressing is the sudden parchedness of his throat. It takes immense effort to swing his legs off the sofa and navigate his way through the strewn bottles. He stumbles into the kitchen, lurches to the sink. He drinks straight from the tap, gulping down the icy water. As he straightens up, he wipes his mouth and glances outside –  
Heavy snow covers the square, pristine and white, coating the fountain and the steps leading up to Katniss's house, piling in her hallway.  
He has to blink to make sure he's not seeing things. The front door of her house is gaping, and all the windows are wide open, curtains tangling in the wind. He stumbles from the kitchen, wrestles his front door open and starts running, his bare feet stinging when they touch the cold snow. He pounds up the steps to her house. Snow lies in drifts in the hallway. Panic rises, making his heart jolt painfully in his chest. He yells her name but apart from the sigh of the wind there isn't a sound in the house. There's no sign of her in any of the rooms downstairs. He checks the cupboards too, but she's not there either. His calls are muffled by the snow. Upstairs he tries three different bedrooms before at last he finds her in the smallest, sitting huddled on the floor under the open window, snow settling thick in her hair, on her eyelashes.  
'Katniss. Katniss what were you thinking?' He crosses the room in a single stride and wrenches the window closed, locking the latch tightly. Then he drops on his knees in front of her, his hands on her shoulders.  
'What were you thinking?' His voice breaks a bit. His hands now cup her cold cheeks, stroking them.  
She gazes back at him, wide-eyed. She tries to speak but instead of words, the sound she makes is a moan. And then she's crying, great gulping cries that seem to tear her inside. He pulls her into his arms and holds her, rubbing her back, stroking her hair and murmuring that it's all right, she'll be all right. His head is pounding, and his eyes hurt from the brightness of the snow. He feels a wave of nausea and shoves it down, focusing on calming her.  
She cries until she's out of tears and goes limp in his arms, her face buried in his neck, her body shuddering over and over. When she's quiet at last, he lifts her and carries her to the bed, wrapping her in the quilt and then going to the other bedrooms, taking the blankets he finds and covering her with those too. Then he goes around the house and shuts all the windows before finding a shovel and a broom and gathering up all the snow and throwing it onto the porch. Finally he shuts the front door and goes back up to her room. He stands in the doorway and looks down at her, suddenly exhausted. He should have been here sooner. He should never have left…  
'Haymitch.' She's turned her head to look at him. It's dark outside, and her face is pale in the gloom. But he can see the question in her eyes – one she doesn't dare to say out loud because she couldn't stand another rejection, to be abandoned all over again. For now, he's the only one she has left.  
He goes to the bed, lifts up one side of the mountain of quilts and scoots in. She's lying on her side facing him, unsmiling, her eyes fixed on his.  
He manages a smile. 'I'm not going anywhere, sweetheart. I promise.'  
She blinks tiredly. Gently he pushes her shoulder until she's lying on her back. Then he shifts her onto her other side and moves closer so that her back is warm against his chest, his arm draped loosely over her stomach.  
'I'm here,' he says again, and she relaxes against him. Not even a minute later she's asleep.  
When he's sure she won't wake up, he withdraws his arm and shifts away a bit. She nestles deeper under the covers and sighs, still sleeping.  
He lies next to her wondering what to do. She's been so strong to make it this far. He'd thought that she'd be fine on her own, safe in 12, with Greasy Sae looking after her until Peeta arrived. But seeing her slumped in the snow, he knows he was wrong.  
He listens to her breathing until the sound sends him to sleep. 


	3. Chapter 3

****

**Chapter Three**

_Katniss_  
The next morning I wake to bright white light. Something is different. It's me. I feel rested; and know instinctively that for once I slept deeply, without nightmares. Usually I sleep in brief snatches, waking myself every half an hour so I never lose alertness enough for the nightmares to come. But more than that, I feel warm, safe. There are blankets cocooned around me, and I'm lying on a soft mattress, not sitting hunched in a hard rocking chair.  
I turn my head and see Haymitch. His eyes are closed and he looks more peaceful than I've ever seen him. The lines around his eyes are fainter in sleep; he looks ten years younger.  
As I look at him I remember why he came, how I opened all the windows to let in the snow. The effect is almost instantaneous. The safe, warm feeling drains away and I'm left hollow and aching. I turn away and stare up at the ceiling in blank misery. My chest and throat are sore from all my crying yesterday; it was the first time I've cried since Prim died. The thought is enough to prompt tears to start leaking out of my eyes again.  
I keep thinking about how easy it was to get out of my rocking chair and open all those windows, even though part of me knew the cold could kill me. Maybe that was why I did it. I think of what Prim and Peeta would say, their sadness, their disappointment.  
I must make a sound, a whimper, because Haymitch is suddenly leaning over me, a deep frowning line etched between his brows.  
'Sweetheart? What is it?'  
I just shake my head, unable to speak.  
He reaches for my hand and holds it tightly. His face grows serious, his eyes looking deep into mine. I'm reminded of our goodbye before the Quarter Quell, that look that tried to tell me everything he couldn't say in words.  
'Katniss, promise me something. If you ever feel like you felt yesterday, come and find me. I'll be there, night or day. Just come and find me, and you won't have to be alone.' His fingers squeeze mine, warm and strong.  
The part of me that isn't shut down with loss registers something in his voice that I can respond to. He knows what it's like to lose everyone he loves because of the Capitol – because of his rebellion. He knows what it's like to be alone with ghosts.  
Prim and Peeta might not be here, but Haymitch is. Maybe neither of us has to be completely alone again.  
He's still waiting for me to answer. I find myself nodding, once.  
Tension loosens from his face, and he almost smiles. 'Good girl. You're stronger than you know.'  
Normally I would reject these words automatically. I am weak, a shell of the girl I was before. But Haymitch never pretends I'm anything other than what I am – so he must be able to see something I can't. He could be wrong – but he might be right.  
I'm so busy turning this over in my mind that I almost miss what he says next. 'Sae came by last night to cook for you.' He starts pushing the covers back and climbing out of bed. 'You were still asleep, so she told me to cook you an extra-large breakfast since you missed dinner.' He goes to the door, pushing his sleep-matted hair out of his eyes, rubbing his jaw, which is rough from lack of shaving. 'Why don't you come on down and I'll make you something.'

…

Over the next three weeks Haymitch comes over every evening without fail, mostly sober, to eat with me and Greasy Sae and her granddaughter, Gracie. When Sae and the little girl head off into the night, Haymitch stays until the fire starts to burn low. Then he gets up, puts more wood in the grate and crosses the snow to his house, while I sit in my chair, dozing in and out of sleep until Sae wakes me the next morning by banging pots on the stove as she cooks me breakfast.  
Like before, I never leave the kitchen unless I need to use the bathroom. I still haven't changed my clothes or washed since arriving in 12. But inside me it feels like something is thawing, day by day, inch by inch. Every evening I notice something new. The way little Gracie swirls her finger around her bowl to soak up every last drop of soup. The slow song Sae hums under her breath whenever she makes fish stew; the sting in my eyes when she chops onions. The soft look that creeps into Haymitch's features when he sees me noticing these things. They are such small details, insignificant really – but I cling to them silently, locking them somewhere inside me, waiting for the day there'll be enough of them for me to leave this warm kitchen and start living again.

…

_Haymitch_  
With every passing week the days are getting longer and one day all the snow melts away. When he steps out of his front door he catches the lingering scent of spring in the air. As he crosses the small square and climbs the steps to Katniss's house he sees green-budded daffodils pushing out of the ground.  
There's something different about Katniss that evening. She sits up slightly straighter in the rocking chair, her fingers griping the arms, like she's expecting something to happen.  
Tomorrow was supposed to be the day Peeta would be returning to 12. Ever since leaving the Capitol Haymitch has given Dr Aurelius a weekly call to check up on Peeta. Over the weeks the boy's condition has been steadily improving. But this morning Dr Aurelius had called to say Peeta had taken a turn for the worse, and won't be ready to return to 12 for at least a fortnight. Now Haymitch is glad he'd said nothing to Katniss; that he hadn't told her news which would extinguish the new life and curiosity in her eyes. Better not to talk about Peeta until the boy himself appears on the doorstep.  
Haymitch has no doubt that it's Peeta Katniss is waiting for. She never mentions Peeta's name – she never really talks at all – but he knows some broken part of her won't fully heal until Peeta is back.  
At supper Greasy Sae had suggested Katniss go hunting the next day, if the good weather holds up. Katniss didn't show much reaction, but now she looks thoughtful as she stares into the fire.  
He tells her about the latest news on the television. Every few days he turns on the newscast and the next evening he recites what he heard, while she listens in silence. Things are changing in Panem, and the effects are quick and encouraging. Capitol and District citizens alike are coming together to build a brighter, fairer future in the wreckage left over from the war. President-elect Paylor is following through with her promises. Haymitch hasn't left Victor's Village yet, but Greasy Sae tells them that the dead are being buried and the rubble cleared away. There are many wounds that will be slow to heal, of course, but everyone is trying, promises Plutarch Heavensbee, newly-appointed secretary of communications, in his daily TV-spots.  
Katniss never asks any questions, but Haymitch can tell she's listening carefully. Her skin is gradually healing; the patches of grafted skin are less obvious now. Her hair is growing back unevenly. When he sees how far she's come from the wreck of a girl who hid herself in cupboards in the Capitol, he feels a quiet, fierce pride.  
It's those small changes which keep him from drinking himself unconscious. He owes it to her, and to himself, to see her through this until Peeta arrives.  
He gets up to rake the fire. In a week or so spring will be here properly and she won't need a fire at night. 'So,' he says, slotting three fresh logs onto the grate. 'Will Sae be making venison tomorrow night?'  
Her eyes flick to him. 'I don't have a bow.'  
He straightens up, brushing his hands on his pants. 'Check down the hall.' At the door he looks back at her. 'Goodnight, Katniss.' 


	4. Chapter 4

****

**Chapter Four**

_Katniss_  
After Haymitch leaves I consider doing as he says and going to look for my bow. It's been a long time since I've made a decision like this, and several hours slip by before I lever myself out of the rocking chair and tiptoe down the corridor. I go to stand in the middle of the study. Moonlight pools in through the bay windows, bathing the furniture in a muted glow. Through the front window, directly across the square, I can see Haymitch's house. The front rooms are dark but towards the back, where his sitting room is, there's a warm orange glow. It must be the middle of the night, but he's still up.  
I wonder if he always does this. Attempts to keep away the night by staying awake and drinking, his knife no doubt close at hand. The thought makes me sad. Then I shake myself; if he was here he'd tell me to mind my own business and get some sleep.  
Remembering why I came in here I go to the desk. My bow and a sheath of arrows lie on the mahogany surface. My breath tightening, I reach out and trace the silken curve of the bow, the feathered fletching of the arrows. Maybe I will go out tomorrow after all. To myself, at least, I can admit that part of me longs to slip back into the old Katniss and walk through the woods on a bright spring morning.  
Next to my bow there's a box containing my most precious possessions. I haven't thought about them since I was in the Capitol, but now I touch each of them one by one. There's my parents' wedding photo, Peeta's locket, Haymitch's spile, and my mother's plant book. As my fingers feel each item memories start rising in me. At first I'm terrified. This is why I've avoided leaving the kitchen for so long. I long to turn tail and run, but something keeps me anchored where I am. I can't think about Prim yet – those memories are still locked up tightly. Instead I think of Peeta telling me his favourite colour; Haymitch sipping broth with me in his living room the evening after the Quarter Quell reaping; my father teaching me mountain airs and ballads. Gradually I let go of my fear; these memories are tender; sometimes painfully so, but not frightening. I hold each memory for a precious moment, then allow them to sink back into my unconscious, but just below the surface, not buried deep like they were before. I'm starting to realise that there are some things about my life that I still want to remember, even if they can be bittersweet.  
I look out the window; Haymitch's lights are still on. The thought of him sitting there, keeping watch through the night, is comforting. I go to the window-seat and lie down, falling asleep in the space of seconds.

…

_Haymitch_  
Usually he sleeps in until mid-afternoon, exhausted from his night's vigil, but this morning he wakes a couple of hours after dawn. His head is pulsing with a minor hangover, and the inside of his mouth tastes sticky and metallic. He lies still for a while, then gets up to pour himself a glass of water.  
As he reaches the hallway there's a knock at the front door. He opens it, and is assaulted by such bright light that his head feels like it's splitting in two. He has to blink several times before he can see.  
Greasy Sae looks up at him dispassionately. 'She left a few minutes ago with her bow. Thought you should know.'  
'Oh. Thanks,' he rasps, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. Behind his habitual nonchalance, he is more pleased than he can remember being in a long time. He pictures Katniss stalking out of the square, her bow slung on her back, settling against her father's old hunting jacket, her characteristic braid curving around her neck; these are the things which make her Katniss.  
Sae nods once. 'See you at supper.' She turns and trudges towards the gates, her steps slow but purposeful. When she's halfway across the square a small figure bursts out from behind a house and runs to join her; her granddaughter.  
He watches them with a faint smile, then shuts the door. Fetching a glass of water, he goes back to the sitting room and settles into his armchair. Within a few minutes he's fallen into a doze, from which he doesn't wake for several hours.  
When he does it's still bright outside, but something doesn't feel quite right. He goes to his kitchen and stares across at Katniss's house. The windows are blank, revealing nothing. It's unlikely she's back yet. He retraces his steps to his armchair and sits distractedly. Normally it would be almost too easy for him to while away the hours until sunset with a drink or two, but now he can't even manage a sip of the bottle he opens.  
He considers turning on the television but he's not in the mood for one of Plutarch's litanies of optimism. After a few minutes he gives in and flicks the remote. Sure enough, Plutarch's face is the first to appear.  
Before he's managed to tune into Plutarch's speech, the phone rings, making him jump. He hesitates, then snatches it up.  
'Yes?' he grunts.  
'Haymitch! Aren't you pleased to hear from me?'  
Her chirpy optimism back in full force, the speaker is undeniably Effie. 'Thought you were Plutarch,' Haymitch mutters.  
'And would that be so bad? Never mind. I don't want to know.' For the next twenty minutes she chatters on about the latest big projects in the Capitol; her new job as an executive in telecommunications. Because he likes her he listens with as much sympathy and patience as he can, but it's a relief when she finally sings out her goodbyes, excusing herself for a meeting of the utmost importance.  
When he puts down the phone he's reminded more than ever of how much his life has changed. No more reapings, no more trips to the Capitol to mentor doomed tributes, no more watching, out of his mind with drink, as two more children in his care are slaughtered on-camera.  
More than that, he's struck by how much he wants to stay in 12. When did this godforsaken district start to feel like a place he would choose to stay in, not merely out of habit but of his own free will?  
Pensive, he takes a sip of liquor. He looks outside and sees the sun dipping close to the treeline. His unease tightens. The woods are a long walk away, and Katniss hasn't walked further than the length of her hallway in months. The snow might finally have melted, but the days are still chilled – and short. In less than an hour the sun will have set.  
For a horrible moment he imagines her collapsing in the woods, unable to move as the darkness sets in. He hasn't been in the woods in years; how will he find her?  
His fingers tighten around the bottle painfully. He should have gone with her.  
Then another thought comes to him, and he shoves the bottle away. Before the rebellion, he'd sometimes see Katniss walking through the town and then the Meadow on her way to the woods. What if she takes that path today? He remembers what Sae said; about the bodies being piled on carts; the mass grave. Katniss shouldn't have to see those things. She's not ready; how could she ever be ready? Suddenly sending her out hunting seems like the worst thing he could have done.  
With a jolt of nausea, he heaves himself upright and goes to pull on his boots. As he straightens up he glances out the window.  
Over the ruins of the bombed house next door, he sees a figure pushing a wheelbarrow through the wrought iron gates past the fountain. It's one of the young men who survived the bombing of 12. He's wheeling Katniss. Even from here she looks spent and exhausted.  
Haymitch goes outside, trudges across the damp ground to meet them. There's a loosening in his chest; like a great weight floating free. He stops when he reaches them, looks down at Katniss critically. Despite her fatigue she lifts her chin and looks right back at him, with a hint of defiance. He has to bite back a smile. She's clawed her way back against all the odds.  
He turns to the young man. 'Thom, isn't it?'  
Thom gives him a quick nod. He's too young to have developed miner's lung, the condition which drove half the District 12 men to an early grave. Too young to clearly remember all the children Haymitch was unable to save.  
'She was almost fainting when I found her,' Thom says, glancing down at Katniss with a sad, perplexed look. 'This was the best way I could think of to get her home.'  
Haymitch thanks him, then takes the barrow and wheels Katniss up to her front steps. He leans down for her to sling her arm around his shoulders. Then he levers her upright and helps her inside. She's so thin, he could have carried her without much difficulty, but he knows she prefers to walk.  
In the hallway she shrugs his arm away and stumbles into the sitting room, tenderly placing her bow and quiver on the table, removing her father's hunting jacket and laying it over the back of a chair. Then she goes straight to the kitchen, slumping into the rocking chair. He throws a blanket over her and goes to start a fire. Glancing up at her, he's startled when he notices her faint smile. 'No lecture?' she asks.  
He laughs; the sound rough. He feels like he hasn't laughed in months. 'Oh I think we're past lectures, sweetheart. When did you ever listen to me, anyway?'  
She smiles back at him for a few moments and his eyes linger on the soft pink curve of her lips. He finds himself noticing how snugly her braid lies against her neck; he feels the strangest compulsion to reach out and stroke the tightly plaited hair with the tip of his finger.  
The compulsion vanishes as Katniss's expression turns inward and he curses silently; what memories are his words triggering? But to his relief she doesn't seem upset, only thoughtful. They don't talk when Greasy Sae stomps in and starts banging pots about. 


	5. Chapter 5

****

**Chapter Five**

_Katniss_  
Haymitch doesn't stay long, muttering something about me needing rest. I fall asleep shortly after he leaves.  
I wake the next morning at dawn – and the first thing I'm aware of is how everything aches. After weeks of limiting myself to the occasional trip to the bathroom, my legs, feet and back are burning from the exertion of going to the woods yesterday.  
I didn't even try to hunt. It had been exhausting enough just to reach the rock Gale and I once used as a meeting place. I don't know how many hours I sat there for, just remembering. Being in the woods brought back so many of the memories I'd been trying to forget for the last few months; but yesterday I'd felt ready for them. I missed my father teaching me how to hunt, how to swim, pointing out the plant I'd been named after. Painful as it was, I thought about Gale, too; those mornings spent hunting with him before the reaping, before the Games – before the bomb.  
Once I'd thought I might marry Gale. I'd known we'd never have children together, not when there was a risk they could be reaped – but we would have been happy together.  
That imagined life now feels startlingly unreal and thinking about it makes me uneasy.  
On my way to and from the woods I'd avoided the town square and the Meadow, mindful of Sae's reports of mass burials, doing my best not to picture them in my mind. One day soon, I know I'll have to go and pay my respects. But that day can wait a while longer.  
I hear footsteps climbing the steps to the front door, then the thump of boots on the doormat as Sae scrapes her soles clean. She greets me with a nod and makes her way to the stove.  
'A wheelbarrow, huh?' she says over her shoulder.  
Great. The news must be spreading like wildfire through the town. Katniss Everdeen, the erstwhile Mockingjay, being wheeled home in a barrow. Still, I'm lucky Thom found me, wheelbarrow or not, or I might not have made it home.  
Sae isn't perturbed by my silence; she's used to it. 'It's gettin' really warm out there now,' she says, whisking eggs in a bowl. 'Soon you won't need a fire at night.'  
The suggestion makes me frown. With no need for a fire, will Haymitch keep up his visits? Then I crack a tiny smile; as long as Sae keeps cooking dinner for me, I guess I can expect him, too. It's probably his only chance of at least one proper meal a day.  
He looked so worried yesterday when he came out to meet me. He didn't say anything about the conspicuously absent game, despite his joke the night before about eating venison. I could see how relieved he was that I'd made it back. He tried to hide it, of course, as though he'd never doubted me. The thought makes me smile again.  
Over breakfast Sae tells me about the blossom coming out this morning. I must have just missed it yesterday and I feel a longing to go outside again, but I'm not capable of even getting out of my chair. It's like my legs have stopped working. Sae has to help me to the bathroom. She waits outside for me, then leads me back to my chair. After the adventures of the day before, it's a blow; there's still a long way to go before I'm fully recovered. Still, if there's one advantage of all my weeks of sitting in the rocking chair, it's that I've trained my bladder to hardly ever need emptying.  
I spend the day dozing. Perhaps I can go to the woods again tomorrow.  
As the clock on the mantelpiece nears six, I find myself sitting up straighter. Half an hour passes. Sae arrives with little Gracie and cooks vegetable stew. By the time it's ready, Haymitch still hasn't turned up. I glance at the door between spoonfuls, but at last I'm forced to accept that he's not coming.  
It's the first time he's not shown up, ever since he made the unspoken commitment to come every evening. When he'd first started coming I'd been sceptical, surprised every time he appeared in the doorway, half-hesitating before he came into the room. But gradually I came to regard it as something I could depend on, something unchanging and constant. Which is ridiculous. The only thing that's constant about Haymitch is his drinking. Still, I'm realising now that his visits are the thing I most looked forward to, and I'm not quite sure how to process this insight.  
Sae doesn't comment on his absence, just shrugs, as if it was inevitable. Which it was, but somehow that shrug is worse than a remark.  
When Sae is gone, I'm too restless to stay in the kitchen. Ignoring my aching legs, I heave myself upright and stagger into the sitting room. On the side table by the window is a pile of unopened letters. Most of them are written in my mother's neat hand. Looking at them makes my head ache; I reach for the remote and turn on the television.  
It's the first time I've watched television in months, though I've been kept relatively up to date with developments in Panem by Haymitch's evening reports.  
Though he wasn't here in person tonight, the first thing I see when I turn on the screen is Haymitch. He's pale and haggard-looking, with dark shadows under his eyes. But he stands steady, leaning forward, speaking seriously, convincingly. He's looking straight ahead at someone I can't see, focused as though his life depends on it. As a headline flashes across the bottom of the screen, I realise that my life depends on it: this is my trial, and he's standing in the witness box.  
An affected, off-screen narrator sums up the events of the trial following my assassination of Coin. Haymitch is quickly replaced in the stand by Peeta and Beetee, Cressida and Plutarch, Gale and Johanna. All of them speak passionately in my defence. I listen to their words, shell-shocked: while all this was going on I'd been locked in a padded cell, singing to myself, suicidal.  
My mother isn't there.  
Suddenly the scene changes; there's footage of my Games, footage of my interviews with Caesar Flickerman, footage of me and Peeta – over and over. Somehow in the footage I always come across as sly and fake, while Peeta is innocent and good-hearted. There are interviews with people I've never seen before, offering their opinions on whether my relationship with Peeta was genuine or not, voicing conspiracy theories about how I'd been planning to join the rebellion all along – in order to become President myself. The title of the 'documentary' flashes up every two minutes: Katniss Everdeen: The Whole Truth.  
It's lurid and horrible. With each minute that goes by my hands are clenching tighter and tighter, my blood roaring louder. But I can't stop watching.  
Now one of the interviewees is talking about how she has it on good authority that I never answer any calls, that I've become a complete recluse. Clearly I'm broken. She doesn't sound too sorry. There's a young man whose face I vaguely remember: he introduces himself as one of the servants in Snow's mansion and reveals how I used to hide in wardrobes, singing ballads and mountain airs.  
And suddenly there's brand new footage – I have to blink twice before I can believe what I'm seeing. Me, being wheeled up to the gates of Victor's Village. The camera follows at a discreet twenty feet, jerky and cautious, but my face and Thom's are clearly recognisable.  
Without even thinking about it I lunge for the remote; the screen flickers black.  
How did they find me? – But that's a ridiculous question. Everyone in Panem must know where I am, doomed by a court ruling to live out my days in traumatised seclusion in the backwoods of 12.  
Are they out there, waiting? Surely they wouldn't dare come up to the house, to the windows?  
I'm shaking. Images are running through my head: the accusing faces, the trial, how small I looked in that wheelbarrow.  
I remember what Haymitch said: to go to him. But had he really meant it? He hadn't come tonight, after all. I wrestle with these thoughts for several long minutes before I pick up the phone.

…

_Haymitch_  
Leaving Katniss behind in the warm kitchen, her cheeks lit red by the fire, he trudges across to his house, a faint smile on his lips.  
As he puts his foot on the first step he notices a package by his door; though hidden by brown paper it's unmistakably a bottle. He pauses; he can't remember the last time anyone sent him anything.  
Tucking it under his arm, he shoulders open the door and heads to the sitting room, where he tears open the paper and finds a note attached to a bottle of white liquor. The note is brief, hastily scrawled. There's no name to identify the writer.  
 _Found this in the rubble of Ripper's house. By some miracle it didn't break. Thought she'd want you to have it – I remember you used to be one of her best customers. Hope you enjoy it. Think of her when you drink it._  
Back before the bombing of 12 he'd used to buy all his liquor from Ripper down at the Hob. She'd died in the attack, along with ninety percent of the district's population. She'd been childhood friends with his mother and had always saved her best liquor for him.  
He can't explain it but the weight of the bottle in his hand causes an anxious feeling to rise in his stomach. Idly, he flicks on the television – and an instant later understands his apprehension all too well.  
Ignoring the agitated reporter, his eyes zero in on the bulletin at the bottom of the screen, where today's date is displayed.  
It's the anniversary of his mother and brother's deaths. Today, exactly twenty-five years have passed since Snow murdered them.  
He's barely aware of his finger digging into the button on the remote, turning off the television. How could he have forgotten? He'd never been good at keeping track of dates – but this is different.  
He sinks back into the sofa, all his contentment of earlier fading until he feels hollowed out, deadened. He rubs a hand over his face, his heart thumping cold and heavy in his chest. It was today, and he'd forgotten all about it.  
His hands shake as he sets aside Ripper's alcohol and opens a half-drunk Capitol bottle, draining the last of it down. Then he goes to his crate of liquor in the back of the room and withdraws another two. The next bottle goes quickly. By the time he's finished it, he's ready for Ripper's white liquor. He drinks slowly, savouring it, along with the bittersweet memories the surge of burning liquor brings to the surface.  
Today isn't any different to all those previous anniversaries of their deaths. He's still here, in the same house, surrounded by bottles, alone.  
For the brief time they'd all been permitted to enjoy the spoils of his victory, they'd lived in a house at the other end of Victor's Village, him, his mother and brother. His girl had visited them there almost every day. When they'd been killed he'd moved here, to get away from the memories.  
It isn't any different, and yet it is. The Games are finished. Snow is dead. Chaff is dead.  
The Games are finally over, but it's too late. He'll never get his girl back, his family back. He'll never be able to save Maysilee.  
Thoughts of lost futures, choices not taken, chase each other round his mind. Shortly before dawn he falls into an unconscious stupor, a half-empty bottle dangling from one hand, his knife clutched tightly in the other.

…

He sleeps through the entire day, waking to find it's dark outside again, as though no time has passed at all. His throat burns; his head pounds, but he can't move. Gradually he remembers; and all his dejection of the night before comes rushing back. Every year previously, it had been anger and the slow-burning need for revenge which had got him through that day. Now these have been taken from him, and all he's left with is grief.  
He reaches for the closest bottle and sips, again and again, but the sharp edges of his pain still won't dull.  
It feels like whole hours slip by before the shrill ring of the telephone chases him into something resembling alertness. For a long time he considers ignoring it. But it keeps ringing, insistent, and he snatches it up.  
'Yeah?' he growls.  
'Haymitch…' The voice is soft, anxious. 'It's me.'  
Her voice is the last thing he expected to hear. It stirs up a confusion of feelings; too mixed up to be easily identified. He inhales through his nose, feeling the thump of blood in his head, hearing the faint sound of her breathing on the other end of the line.  
'What is it now, sweetheart? Need me to come shovel the snow again, close all the windows?' Keep you from killing yourself, his tone implies, though he doesn't actually say it.  
She swallows. He waits for her to speak.  
'You're drunk,' she manages at last, her voice subdued, hurt. She hesitates for what feels like forever, but in the end all she says is, 'You didn't come tonight.'  
He laughs, the sound harsh. 'Don't tell me that surprises you. You really ought to know better; you of all people.'  
She's silent. Then: 'Know better than what?'  
Suddenly he knows what he feels: resentment, resentment for all the burdens she's placed on him over the past months – the past year. Isn't he allowed to have his own grief? Why must he always shoulder hers as well? By all rights it should be Peeta here in 12 with Katniss; Peeta's the one who loves her, the one who gives a damn about people other than himself.  
He pictures his words travelling down the line, into her ear. 'Know better than to count on me showing up.'  
Silence. Then the line cuts off, and he's left holding the phone, alone in the bottle-strewn room. 


	6. Chapter 6

****

**Chapter Six**

When he wakes with a grunt it's past nine o'clock. Water. That's what he needs. His throat parched, head thumping, he makes his way to the kitchen, fills a glass, then collapses back onto the sofa.  
His gaze settles on the phone – and gradually pieces of the night before come back to him. Someone had called him – Katniss. He grimaces as he remembers what he said to her, the hurt in her voice.  
Why had she called? She hadn't said, but he remembers how anxious and subdued she'd sounded. He'd missed dinner with her; she'd told him so, accusingly. But something else must have happened. She's not the type to call him just to reprimand him for not showing up.  
Perhaps he should wait till the evening, go and see her then, as usual. Hopefully by then, if she hasn't already, she'll have realised he only said the things he did because he was drunk.  
But what if something really had happened to her? Almost without thinking, he pulls on boots and heads outside. On his way down the hall, stepping over discarded bottles, he pockets one of the unopened letters lying on the side table. It's from Peeta; he hopes to give it to Katniss as a peace offering.  
He walks over to her house and knocks on the front door. There's no answer. After knocking again and waiting for another minute, he goes around to the kitchen and peers inside. The rocking chair is empty. When he looks into the sitting room he sees her bow is gone, as is her worn hunting jacket.  
The sight brings him some relief; if something had truly upset her she wouldn't have left the house. That she'd managed to find the will to go hunting is a good thing. Perhaps this time she'll manage to catch something; bringing her one step closer to the old Katniss.  
He considers going back to his house, spending the day in his living room sipping alcohol like he normally would. But after spending the last couple of days drunk on his sofa, he feels the need to stay away for a while longer. He'll head into the village. Buy some more alcohol from a Capitol train attendant. Perhaps by the time he gets back his house will have stopped feeling like a place of mourning.  
The walk into town invigorates him, bringing colour back to his face, clearing his lingering headache. He realises he hasn't eaten in over a day; he ought to do something about that.  
As he walks down to the station, he's vaguely aware of people looking at him out of the corner of their eyes, stopping to watch him pass.  
'Haymitch!'  
He stops and turns; Thom is jogging towards him.  
'Did you see it?' Thom asks, his brows drawn.  
Haymitch picks up on his apprehension at once. 'See what?'  
'The documentary. About Katniss.'  
He goes very still. 'What documentary?'  
Thom's eyebrows lift. 'Come with me. I recorded it, in case you hadn't seen it.' He leads Haymitch into a ramshackle hut. The walls are made of corrugated iron, but the technology on the table is in perfect condition. 'This is our temporary communication hub in the district,' Thom explains. He flicks a remote at one of the screens, and an interview starts playing. A young man, talking about Katniss hiding in cupboards, singing to herself.  
It hurts to listen. Haymitch closes his eyes as he remembers pacing outside Katniss's cell an hour before her trial, listening to her singing ballads and love songs, her voice hauntingly beautiful, as though she'd never been burned from head to toe in the bombing outside Snow's palace. His fists clench: he focuses on what he'll say to Plutarch; how he'll tear him to pieces for ever letting this 'documentary' air.  
Then he's staring. There's day-old footage; a shaky camera follows Thom up to Victor's Village as he pushes Katniss up to the gates in a wheelbarrow.  
His eyes don't leave the screen as he speaks. 'This was shown on national television?'  
Thom nods.  
'When?' Haymitch's voice is low. There's an edge to it that makes Thom look at him closely.  
'Last night, around eight p.m.'  
Just before Katniss had called him.  
'Have you seen her anywhere?' he asks Thom. 'She's not home.'  
'No, but she can't have gone far. Sae said she was there at breakfast.'  
'Come on.' Haymitch exits the building quickly, heading for the woods, Thom at his heels.  
He's barely taken three steps when someone calls his name. He turns to see a middle-aged man with a sharp, alert face, and quick, darting eyes. He's smiling, his tongue flitting out to wet his lips, one hand raised to support the camera on his shoulder.  
'That's him,' hisses Thom. 'The reporter who got the footage. He was interviewed at the end.'  
'Haymitch Abernathy!' calls the man, walking closer. A crowd of people is gathering, but he pays them no attention. 'Wondered if I might see you. What did you think of my documentary?'  
Haymitch eyes him steadily. 'Your documentary?'  
'It was my idea. "The whole truth".' He grins. 'It was a huge hit.'  
'So you're back to make another one.' Haymitch smiles; an ugly smile. He's secretly gratified when the man falters.  
'Now there's no need to take that tone, Mr Abernathy. Just doing my job. Actually, I was wondering if Katniss might be open to an interview. Give her point of view, even the scales, as it were.'  
For a second, Haymitch doesn't react. Then in one step he's inches away from the man, his knife in his hand, quicker than thought, now pressed to the reporter's throat.  
'If I ever see you or a camera anywhere near her, you'll find I haven't forgotten the things I learned in my Games.' His blood is beating fast and hot in his ears; he focuses on keeping the knife still, pressed hard enough to cause discomfort, but not quite drawing blood.  
The man swallows, his face white. 'You'll be arrested.'  
Haymitch smiles. 'I have my ways. Being a Victor still carries a lot of influence, especially now the field's narrowed so drastically.' He pauses; waits for his words to sink in. 'Have I made myself clear?'  
The man licks his lips, darting, frightened. 'Perfectly clear.'  
Haymitch lets him go; the journalist staggers back a step then hurries downhill towards the train station, his steps quick and jumpy, the crowd parting in silence to make way for him.  
Tucking his knife away, still breathing fast, Haymitch turns his back on the reporter and continues in the direction of the woods, hardly noticing the open stares of the people around him. Thom follows, easily keeping up with his long legs.  
'Too bad Gale isn't still here,' Thom says. 'He'd know exactly where Katniss is.'  
Just as Haymitch is going to answer a small figure comes sprinting towards them. It's Sae's granddaughter. She stops a few feet away, shy, panting. 'Mister Abernathy, sir – I saw Katniss. She's just standing there. In the Meadow.'  
The Meadow. Now being used as a mass grave.  
Haymitch rubs a hand over his face. 'Shit.'

...

_Katniss_  
I didn't mean to go to the Meadow. I meant to go straight into the woods. But, lost in thought, my feet retrace the path they always took on spring mornings like this, and I find myself standing in the middle of an expanse of soil, newly turned to cover the thousands of bodies now buried in the ground.  
I didn't sleep much after seeing the documentary. After I called Haymitch I retreated back to my rocking chair, pulling a blanket tight around myself. The documentary played over and over in my head, and I found myself recalling Haymitch's words, callous and harsh, like he wanted to hurt me. You should know better than to count on me showing up.  
All his actions of the past month seem to indicate the opposite. He was drunk when he said those words; I know that. It's the first time he's been that drunk since he crossed the snow to my house all those weeks ago. Something must have happened to have made him drink like that.  
What if I happened? What if he's given up, grown tired of waiting for me to take care of myself?  
This makes me angry, hurt. These last few weeks haven't been easy for me either. I never asked him to come; it was his choice, his commitment. But I had asked him to stay – and now he's failed me, when I needed him.  
As I stand in the Meadow, snatches of the documentary chase around my head and a slow, sour anger starts to burn inside me. They don't know anything about me, for all their insider scoops. I refuse to ever again be that helpless girl who needs to be pushed home in a wheelbarrow. I refuse to cower in my house, away from their cameras.  
I had intended to go hunting again, so I could bring something back. A rabbit, a deer, it didn't matter as long as I had something to show for my efforts, something to hand Sae, to show her I'm still worth her patience.  
I didn't tell her my plans, as I suspected she'd go and tell Haymitch and for once I wanted to do something without him. I need to prove it to myself as much as to him that I am able to function alone.  
And now, instead of hunting I'm standing in the Meadow. Except it's no longer a meadow but a mass grave.  
Everywhere I look there's freshly turned over soil, covering up the thousands upon thousands of bones lying out of sight.  
I can't move. I don't know how long I stand there, frozen to the spot. I imagine the bones jumbled together, wondering if they belong to Madge, or Ripper, or The Goat Man, who once sold me Lady, the beautiful little white goat I bought for –  
There's a noise behind me and I bolt. In half a minute I've flown across the field and am safe in the woods. I look over my shoulder but there's no one in sight. I probably imagined the sound. But I plunge on anyway, until I reach the top of an unfamiliar hill, panting and gasping for breath, so worn out I can hardly stand.  
Over the wild crashing of my heart I hear the alarmed shrieks of birds; rapidly fading.  
Idiot. I've scared away all the prey. I'm too exhausted to go in search of more; I'll set snares here then retreat a short distance and wait for them to do their jobs. Surely I can accomplish that, at least. I focus on this new task, trying to banish the last traces of fear. I refuse to go home with nothing again, not when food is so scarce in the district. It's the only thing I can give to the people who're rebuilding this place. Bleak and painful with loss as it is, 12 is the only home I'll ever have.  
I dig into my pocket and find some spare metal wires. But when I try to shape them into a snare my hands shake and the wires fall to the ground. I bend down and grab at them, and try again. But this time it's worse. I clench my teeth and wait for the shaking to subside, while a dark voice whispers to me that the documentary was right. I'm broken, and I'll never get back to who I used to be.  
I'm close to tears when a quiet voice says, 'Here,' and hands are covering mine. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

It's Haymitch. I'm too startled by his sudden appearance to feel anything other than surprise. I watch, baffled and amazed, as he carefully constructs the snare. His hands shake, but somehow he manages it. It's roughly made and a little wobbly, not as sleekly deadly as Gale's, but it will serve its purpose.  
I can feel him watching me, wary and alert for any change in my expression. I give nothing away, waiting for him to speak first.  
'It's the only one I can remember how to make,' he says at last, with a wry look at his creation. 'Probably because that Hawthorne boy was on me like a hawk so I couldn't afford to make a mess of it.'  
I remember. In those weeks of training after the Quarter Quell announcement, Gale had offered to teach Haymitch, Peeta and I how to make snares. It had been a difficult afternoon. For the first time in months, the day had been a warm one, but the tension crackling between Gale and Peeta had sucked all the joy out of the sunshine. Gale had nobly put aside his feelings and focused on teaching, mindful that there was a one in two chance that Peeta would be my ally in the Games. All the same, anyone could see it didn't please Gale when Peeta flawlessly recreated every single snare he was taught. Haymitch, however, couldn't have fared much worse. In the throes of withdrawal, his shaking hands made it impossible to tie the thin wires in complicated knots, and Gale had zero sympathy for his alcohol-induced affliction. Haymitch didn't respond particularly well to his criticisms, giving back as good as he got.  
'What was it about you and Gale?' I ask now. 'You couldn't stand each other.'  
Haymitch snorts. 'That boy had a pole up his ass. Wouldn't know a joke if it laughed in his face. He needed to take it easy, relax a little.'  
I'm amused, despite myself. 'Gale, taking it easy. That's one day that'll never come.'  
Haymitch turns to me. 'Well notify me if it does.' There's a glint of laughter in his eyes, sharp and warm. That's when I notice I'm half-smiling back. I look away quickly.  
We go back to our awkward silence. He clears his throat.  
'Katniss… I'm sorry for the things I said last night.' His voice is tentative, but his words are genuine. 'I didn't mean it.'  
'I know,' I say roughly. I do know he didn't mean the things he said, even if the memory of them still hurts. I feel my anger fading.  
He nods, a hint of relief showing in his face. He fiddles with the snare, taking it apart again. 'While I was in town, I heard about the documentary.'  
I stiffen; he's watching me closely.  
There's a note of steel in his voice that makes me look up. 'They'll make another over my dead body.'  
I nod, but have to look away. Even if there won't be any more, the memory of last night's documentary is still painfully fresh.  
A long silence draws out. I hear the crunch of leaves; Haymitch is on his feet. He holds out a hand. 'Come with me.' I look up at him. 'There's a place near here I want to show you.'  
For a moment I hesitate. Then I reach out and take his hand.  
He pulls me up easily; his grip strong. I follow him through the woods; we walk slowly, mindful of my still-weak legs. He clearly knows his way; surprising me. As far as I knew, Haymitch had never set foot in the woods until today. But he navigates the undergrowth with attention and confidence. He's not quiet enough for a hunter. I would have heard him earlier, if I hadn't been so agitated. But he's much less loud than Peeta. I suppress a pang as I'm taken back into my first Games, to that brief period of giddy relief when two Victors were allowed, listening to Peeta stamping through the woods behind me – at least it had sounded like stamping to me. Then Haymitch mutters a curse as a branch hits him in the face and I'm snapped back into the present.  
Without warning the trees fall away and a blue lake spreads before us. It's smaller than the one I used to go to, but no less beautiful. As we take in the sight, the clouds part and sunlight hits the lake, shimmering. In silent accord, we both go to sit on a fallen tree trunk.  
I can hear the faint calls of birds, hear the wind rippling the newly-grown leaves. For a long time, I can't look away from the shining lake.  
'I came here once with my brother,' Haymitch says slowly, sending his gaze out across the water, looking back into a time I never knew. The sun catches the lines edging his eyes, turning them silver. 'Before my reaping. Back then security was tighter. Hardly anyone went into the woods. Apart from your father; he was always in and out of there. One day my brother and I dared each other to get through the fence when the electricity was down and go exploring… Well, we didn't do much exploring. We found this place and just stuck to its shores. We'd never seen so much water before. We had a go at swimming – probably looked like a pair of drowning cats. We'd seen District 4 kids swimming in their Games – but turns out it's not as easy as they made it look.'  
I think of what that day must have been like. I know what Haymitch would have looked like then; I saw the tape of his Games, and I guess his brother must have looked a lot like him.  
'I used to come back here to remember him, after Snow had him killed.' His eyes tighten. 'After a few years of mentoring I couldn't face this place any more… This is the first time I've been back since.'  
I draw up my legs and wrap my arms around them, resting my chin on my knees. I know what he means. Before the rebellion, I used to visit my father's lake every couple of weeks to remember him – but now the thought of going there panics me. I don't think I could bear to stand on the shores and see how unchanged the lake is, while knowing I've become unrecognisable.  
Haymitch is silent for a long time. When he finally speaks his voice is pained. 'When I didn't show up last night … when I said those things on the phone… It was exactly twenty-five years since he'd died. They'd died. My brother, my mother, my girl.'  
I look at him with dawning horror. What can I possibly say to that? 'I'm so sorry. I didn't know.' I hesitate, suddenly shy; but it feels right to say the words. 'I would have been there for you.' Like he's been there for me all along.  
He's looking at me intently. He nods, slowly. 'I know.'  
I feel a tightening in my chest. 'Tell me something about them. All of them.' He's never spoken to me about his family before, and I want to know. But more than this, I sense it might help him to talk about them – and I realise I want to be the one to listen.  
For a moment he doesn't say anything. But then he starts to talk, telling me about his mother's friendship with Ripper, his brother's talent for wood-carving, his girl's liking for the sweets Peeta's father used to make in the Mellark bakery. He hesitates. 'I remember Prim liked them, too.'  
I start; her name is the last thing I was expecting to hear. I swallow painfully. He's right – she loved them.  
I look away as a memory surges up before I can stop it. It's one of the wintry days before the Quarter Quell announcement: I arrived home late in the afternoon to find Peacekeepers in my sitting room. Prim, Peeta and Haymitch had helped me work up a story to explain away my lateness, passing sweets back and forth, laughing.  
My eyes feel hot and tight. Why can't I talk about her yet? I know what it must have cost Haymitch to talk about his family – but isn't it time I managed it too? Maybe if I only talk about neutral things – if anything about her can be neutral – I won't cry.  
I want to say something about her, to share stories about her like he's shared stories about the ones he's loved and lost, but when I open my mouth to speak, I can't find the words.  
Then his hand wraps around mine, warm and reassuring, his fingers large and strong, telling me it's ok, there'll be time to talk later. I clutch back; and somehow I'm able to hold back the tears. I realise how glad I am he's here.  
'Why did you stay in Twelve, Haymitch?'  
He frowns slightly at this change of conversation. 'There was nowhere else for me to go.'  
'What if there was. Would you leave?'  
He hesitates, as if surprised I'm even asking. 'I'm not going anywhere, Katniss.' His eyes hold mine and I nod, some half-acknowledged fear finally put to rest.  
On the other side of the lake a flock of geese rises into the air. The sound of their wings beating makes me smile; it's been so long since I've been able to just sit here in the woods like this, and feel at peace. I know that an hour ago I could never have imagined feeling like this again.  
Somehow I feel that he knows this, but I say the words all the same. 'Thank you for showing me this place.'  
His hand squeezes mine. We stay and watch the geese vanish over the horizon, bright white flecks slowly fading into the distance.

…

_Haymitch_  
By the time they get to the gates of Victor's Village Katniss is stumbling with exhaustion and he starts to regret that he took her to the lake.  
But then, as if she knows what he's thinking, she looks up, a faint glint in her eye. 'No wheelbarrow this time.'  
He laughs, reassured, but still slips a steadying arm across her back as they climb the steps to her house.  
Until today he had never imagined taking anyone to his brother's lake. But it had felt right to take Katniss there. Already, in the new lightness to her step and expressions, he can see the difference their time there has made to her; and he knows it's changed him too. For so many years he's avoided talking about those he's lost, drowning his grief and anger in the powerful thrall of Ripper's white liquor. Sometimes, when he got drunk with Chaff, he'd reminisce about them, but the following morning he'd never be able to remember what he'd said, and all he'd be left with was a taint of regret and shame, as though he'd done some injustice to their memory.  
Talking about them today had been painful, but it also felt like part of a burden lifting, allowing him to breathe a little easier. With Katniss listening, he'd finally been able to remember them without guilt.  
As he leans down to help Katniss into her rocking chair, he feels something shift in his jacket pocket; it's Peeta's letter. Somehow the right moment to read it never came. He'll read it to her some other time. Right now, she looks done in.  
He says goodnight, promising to be back the following evening. He's relieved when her answering nod shows no trace of bitterness for his absence of the previous evening.  
Back in his house, he heads straight for the sitting room. He has a call to make. There's no feeling of relief now; only hardened resolve and anger. He punches in the number and waits.  
The phone is picked up at the second ring. 'You've reached the office of –'  
'Get me Plutarch, now.'  
'Haymitch.' It's Plutarch's secretary, Fulvia. Her voice is full of distaste. 'I'd hoped I wouldn't have to hear from you again.' She still hasn't forgiven him for ruining her propos in 13.  
'I feel the same way. Now get him on the line. Don't make me wait.'  
She clicks her tongue, but a moment later the phone rings again – then abruptly cuts off.  
'Haymitch.' Plutarch sounds genuinely pleased. 'Just who I was hoping to hear from.'  
For a second Haymitch is thrown; these were the last words he was expecting to hear. But Plutarch's word-games don't work with him. 'I know about the documentary,' he growls. 'If I ever see a reporter within five miles of her you'll spend the rest of your life regretting it.'  
Plutarch tries to speak, but Haymitch doesn't let him.  
'Don't give me shit about some maverick reporter out of your control. You're the fucking Head of Telecommunications. I know what all that power does for you,' he says with distaste – 'so use it and put a ban on every camera in Panem from coming within a five mile radius of her house.'  
Plutarch is silent for a moment. 'Let me assure you I had no idea about that footage. Censorship is lax at the moment – it has to be, to prove we're not like Snow and his puppets. But I should have prevented it from airing. I'm very sorry. It won't happen again.'  
'"Sorry?"' His fingers clench around the phone. 'She saw it all. She sat there and watched the whole thing – can you imagine what it did to her? She deserves privacy – space. I thought you were one of the few who'd realise that.'  
Plutarch sounds abashed. 'You're right, of course. It was a very ill-advised piece of journalism, and should never have slipped under my radar. This afternoon I sent a strongly-worded message to the journalist behind it all, advising him never to stir up the story again. The same message, with a few adjustments, was issued to every journalist and newsperson in Panem. I'm confident the measure will have its intended effect.'  
Haymitch grinds his teeth. 'Oh it better. Or I'll take you through every court and tribunal in Panem.'  
Plutarch laughs. 'Message received loud and clear. And now, I need to ask you something.'  
At once Haymitch is suspicious. 'Ask me what?'  
'How would you like to come and work in District Five?'  
The question is so unexpected that for once Haymitch can't muster a reply.  
'It was hit hard during the rebellion – the hydroelectric dam is still undergoing extensive repairs. It's crucial we get things up and running as soon as possible. We desperately need someone to oversee the reconstruction of power lines between the districts and I think you're the right person for the job.'  
'You do?' The question is more doubtful than sarcastic.  
'Certainly. You have a good mind for strategy, and when you want to, you get things done, using every resource available to you; just think of your Games. You already know most of the key players in our republic's new government – and people know you. They're aware of how instrumental you were in triggering the rebellion and guiding it to success. You're good with people, when you want to be – all those sponsors you snagged for Katniss in both her Games. And then there's the excellent job you did of persuading Coin to let Katniss film her propos in District Four, just days after the Capitol bombed it. All this in spite of your … difficult circumstances.'  
Haymitch snorts at this, but without real amusement. Somehow – ludicrously – everything Plutarch is saying makes sense. But with each carefully considered point, something like defiance builds in his gut. He's careful not to think about why this is.  
'Quite the speech, Plutarch. But I'm confused. Shouldn't I be giving it to you?'  
Plutarch ignores this. 'You never know when the right role will turn up for the right person. If you clean up your act a little, I see no reason why you couldn't thrive in the job. So, what do you say?'  
'You're actually serious?'  
'You know me well enough to know I'm always serious about these matters.'  
He doesn't hesitate. 'No.'  
Plutarch takes a breath. 'I want you to think about it.'  
'There's nothing to think about. I'm staying here.'  
'Well, consider it further anyway. It can't do any harm.'  
Suddenly he's had enough. 'Still think you're Head Gamemaker, don't you, Plutarch? You need to learn to take no for an answer.'  
He hangs up the phone, but not quickly enough to cut off the beginnings of Plutarch's chuckle. 


	8. Chapter 8

****

**Chapter Eight**

_Katniss_  
After Haymitch leaves, I manage to doze for a couple of hours before Sae comes into the kitchen, Gracie trailing behind her. Sae gives me an uncharacteristically cautious look.  
'You all right, girl?'  
She must have heard about the documentary.  
I manage a slight smile. 'I'm fine.'  
She nods, then goes to the stove. 'Word is that reporter won't be comin' back any time soon.'  
I stare at her, all tiredness forgotten. 'What reporter?'  
'The one who got the footage of you.' She doesn't need to say the word 'wheelbarrow' for me to know the footage she means. 'He was back in town today. He wanted an interview with you.' She makes a scoffing sound in the back of her throat. 'Haymitch wasn't having it.'  
My lungs constrict. 'Haymitch? What did he do?'  
'He had his knife to the man's throat. Made a few threats. Didn't take many before the Capitol bastard turned tail and ran.' She throws a fistful of chopped carrots into the sizzling pot.  
I sit back and digest these words. Haymitch, making threats. Not something to take lightly; I remember steering clear of him for a few days back in 13 after he threatened to lock my skull into a shackle-like metal audio unit, as punishment for removing my earpiece during combat.  
It takes a lot to make Haymitch lose his temper – and yet he'd lost it with the reporter. He must have just found out about the documentary. I remember what he said to me this morning, his eyes holding mine: 'They'll make another over my dead body.'  
'Katniss?' Gracie is standing in front of me, jolting me from my thoughts. She blinks at me shyly, then holds something towards me. It's a small bunch of wildflowers, a beautiful haze of blue, purple and green. I can't help but smile a little and she smiles back. 'I found them at the edge of the Meadow,' she says, and my smile fades.  
She falters, but carries on. She's obviously thought about this brief speech. 'One day it'll be the Meadow again. Like it was before. You'll see.'  
I take the flowers numbly, feeling the stems shift in my grasp. My thoughts turn inward, remembering the morning, the recently covered mass grave. It's hard to believe that place could ever be restored to what it was before the bombing, the beautiful meadow I loved so much.  
But she's right. If flowers are already growing there, it won't be much longer than a year or two before the Meadow is restored, itself once again.  
This thought won't leave me even when Sae and Gracie are gone. Looking around the kitchen, after walking in the woods just today, I'm aware of how constrained my life has become. Some instinct makes me rise from my chair, crossing the floor in my bare feet. I walk through all the downstairs rooms, taking a moment to stand still in the middle of each one. Shadows and moonlight give the furniture an unfamiliar, ghostly look. I light a gas lamp; the orange glow comforts me.  
I climb the stairs and explore the bedrooms one by one. Until I come to the last door.  
For a long time I stand there, unable to move. Then I reach out, turn the handle, and go inside.  
I'm frozen all over again. Everywhere I look, I see her things, I see her. The knitted bedspread, the small selection of well-thumbed books, given to her by her teachers for her perfect assignments. It's not her room any more, I tell myself. It's just a dead room. But I can't help but see her in every object and with each breath my ribs get tighter and tighter –  
A sound makes me whirl; something stirs in the shadows of the landing. Two unmistakable slit eyes blink at me, the colour of a rotting squash. Then Buttercup emerges into the lamplight. His ear is torn, his fur ragged and matted, the yellow hidden by mud. His tail is raised halfway, his eyes mournful. For a long moment he just stares at me. Then, keeping a careful distance from me he pads into the room, mewling.  
'She's not here.' My voice is thick, phlegmy.  
He pays me no attention but continues to search the room, his meows plaintive. They sound especially pathetic coming from such a large, hideous creature.  
'You stupid cat! She's not here!' And without thinking I grab a pillow from Prim's wicker chair and throw. It misses narrowly.  
He hisses, bristling, and turns to look at me.  
Out of nowhere, tears start pouring down my cheeks. I grab another pillow to throw, but it dangles uselessly from my fingers. Buttercup stares up at me, wary. Suddenly I'm weeping, loud, racking sobs. They hurt – but I can feel myself letting go of something at last. It's the first time I've cried properly since I let in all the snow – but this time it's not terror, not strain, that makes me cry. This time it's grief, it's the pain of losing her all over again. All the things I tried to forget – her smile, her laugh, the scent of her hair – they assault me in waves – and I cling to them, because I can never lose them.  
Buttercup's keening mingles with my sobs. The last thing I remember is pulling one of the pillows to me and laying my head on it.

…

When I wake up the next morning someone's tucked a blanket over me and put a vase of fresh daffodils on the bedside table; Sae. Buttercup is sitting on the windowsill, watching me closely. I remember how sore his paws were yesterday and I pull the thorns out of his pads; for once he doesn't scratch me but sits compliant, even purring when it's over.  
I can't help but shake my head at this development, but I'm smiling. For the first time in weeks, I feel something like hope. I'll never stop missing Prim; but today I can begin to accept it. These past few weeks have been about survival, but with Buttercup purring next to me, the daffodils on the bedside table, the morning sun filling Prim's room with warmth, I'm finally ready to start living again, like Prim would want me to. It won't be easy, but I have to try.  
I go into the bathroom, remove my clothes and climb into the shower. The water is blissfully hot, and for a few minutes I just stand there letting it pour over me, before I get to the business of washing away all the grime that's accumulated since I left the Capitol. I wash my hair three times before I'm satisfied it's really clean, then wrap it in a towel and pull on the first clothes I find in my bedroom. Back in my chair in the kitchen, at Sae's suggestion, I pare off my nails with a knife. When Sae leaves, she takes my old clothes with her to burn; I won't be needing them again and no one else will want them.

…

_Haymitch_  
'How's the boy?' Haymitch leans back in his armchair, the phone cupped to his ear. A week has gone by since his last call to Dr Aurelius, since he was told that Peeta won't be coming to 12 as soon as they'd hoped.  
'He's recovering. We managed to work out exactly what triggered his memory incident and since then we've been working hard to reduce his anxiety.'  
A slight smile lifts the corners of Haymitch's lips; he's proud of the boy, still fighting despite everything. 'Good. He's doing well. How long till he's back?'  
Aurelius's tone turns cautionary, sympathetic. 'We've decided to slow things down a bit, let him take all the time he needs to adjust. He's been spending time talking to friends, which helps. Beetee and Effie have made a couple of visits. So has Annie Cresta, with her infant son. Peeta's a real hit with him.'  
'I'm not surprised.'  
'He's looking forward to seeing you – and Katniss. Have you talked about Peeta with her?'  
'No. We haven't talked much.' Until yesterday afternoon, he ought to add, but he doesn't want to discuss this with Aurelius. 'But she misses him, I can tell.' He pauses. 'So do I.'  
'Have you asked her to call me? I can't pretend to be treating her forever.'  
Haymitch sighs. 'I'll remind her soon. She's nearly ready.'  
'You think so?' He can picture Aurelius's ears pricking up. 'I'm very glad to hear it. That's extremely good to hear.' He's silent for a moment, making sure he has Haymitch's attention. 'You should be proud of yourself.'  
At once Haymitch frowns. 'I didn't do anything anyone else wouldn't have. It's all down to her.'  
'Of course.' Aurelius sounds like he'd like to say something else, but decides not to push it. 'Well, I have to go. I have a patient waiting. It was good to talk to you, Haymitch. I'll give you a call next week to let you know how Peeta is.'  
'Thanks, Aurelius. Till next time.' He sets down the phone and sits back.  
He'd hoped to see Peeta back by the end of the week; but it looked like his return was to be delayed yet again. He misses the boy, and he wants to see with his own eyes that he's recovered from the hijacking. It had been hard to leave him behind in the Capitol after Katniss's trial – but he'd known the boy would be well cared for by Aurelius – and Katniss needed him more.  
Though that's no longer quite true. Even in the last few days she's made huge leaps towards independence and recovery. She's almost at the point where she can function alone. Once Peeta's back, he'll no longer be needed.  
No more evenings sitting with her in her kitchen, or fewer of them, at least. He should be pleased at the thought of shrugging off the self-imposed obligation, but somehow he isn't…  
He snorts. Clearly, he needs a drink. He's almost out of alcohol: it's high time he went into town and bought some more.

…

_Katniss_  
That afternoon I go for a walk around the perimeter of the village. It's chilly all of a sudden, so I'm wrapped up in my father's old hunting jacket, a pair of gloves covering my hands. As I'm making my way past the fountain, angling for my house, I hear footsteps. I turn; it's Haymitch. He starts to greet me, then stops stock still, staring; and I realise he hasn't seen me looking this clean since we left the Capitol.  
The silence draws out. Just as it's about to turn awkward his face breaks into a smile. I stare hard at that smile, trying to work out what it means. There's surprise and relief – and hope. I don't think I've ever seen him look so unguarded, so open.  
'Welcome back, sweetheart,' he says. And I can't help smiling too.  
He looks at me for a few more seconds, then clears his throat. 'I've just been in town. Why don't you head home and I'll join you in a minute.' I watch him walk to the steps of his house, then turn and cross the square to my own steps.  
Back in the kitchen I sit down at the table and remove my gloves, rolling them up. My fingers show through the ends; I need to buy new ones. Buttercup is settled on the table, watchful, possessive.  
The back door opens and Haymitch steps inside. He sees the cat at once.  
'Looks like dinner walked right in.'  
My mouth falls open, half-indignant, half-amused. He laughs and pulls out a chair next to me. 'I thought he hated you,' he says, sitting down, leaning his elbows on the table. 'And you were never too fond of him, either.'  
I shrug. 'We've made a truce.' I give Buttercup a scratch behind his ear; he purrs loudly. I turn to Haymitch. 'See?'  
He's looking at me steadily, the hint of a smirk playing across his lips. Then he leans back in his chair, eyes flicking to Buttercup. 'He must have walked all the way from Thirteen. How long's he been back?'  
I look away. 'He turned up last night. I … I went up to Prim's room.' I can sense Haymitch's sudden stillness. 'All her things … it's like she never left.' For a long moment I can't speak. 'I didn't want to forget her anymore.' I dare a glance at him; he's looking at me steadily, his eyes full of sympathy.  
'You'll never forget her, sweetheart.'  
'I know.' I scratch Buttercup's side, wanting to say more, but not knowing where to begin.  
'Tell me something about her,' he says, and I look up at him. Those are almost my words, from yesterday, by the lake – and I know he knows this. He looks at me, waiting, giving me the time to speak.  
My voice is hesitant, slow, but I find myself telling him about the day Prim first milked her goat, Lady, how happy she was, how she got everyone in the Seam to try the milk – and how they'd all told her, not completely truthfully, that it was the best they'd ever tasted.  
He listens closely, and as I talk I think about my resolution to try to live again. Could this be part of it? Sharing my memories, not burying them any longer. Saying Prim's name is hard, as I knew it would be, but I know that each time I say it, it'll be easier.  
I've finished talking when the back door opens and Sae comes in. She nods at both of us, then makes her way to the stove. Haymitch stands up to help her chop vegetables, while I stay at the table with Buttercup.

…

_Haymitch_  
As he chops and peels potatoes he's grateful to have something to keep his hands and eyes busy because perhaps he was looking at Katniss a bit too much.  
He still can't get used to the sight of her looking so clean and fresh. Her hair newly washed and falling over her shoulders, her face and arms scrubbed and gleaming, he almost can't recognise her. There's a new brightness to her eyes, a new purpose and lightness to her bearing and movements, and it's hard to look away from her. She hadn't said very much about the time she'd spent in Prim's room, but it's obvious how much it helped her. When she'd told him about Prim, he'd been so proud of her he'd had to look away for a moment, lest she notice and stop talking. He smiles to himself; as her old energy comes back to her, he's sure some of her prickliness will as well. Once she scowls at him, he'll know she's back for good.  
Making his way through town, on his way to buy liquor, he couldn't help taking notice of all the activity going on among the ruins. The square was almost cleared of rubble now, and temporary buildings were going up quickly. People marched to and fro, carrying ladders and tools, planks of wood. Thom had called out a greeting to him and without planning to he'd gone over and helped clear rubble for a couple of hours, promising to be back the next day.  
It had felt good to see the ground clearing, and he'd found himself thinking of Plutarch's job offer again. In District 5 he'd be part of making not just 12 self-sufficient again, but the whole of Panem, and some previously unsuspected part of him had quite liked the idea of such a challenge. Then he'd laughed at himself; when had he ever been motivated to so much as leave his house other than to buy alcohol – the very reason he was now in town in the first place.  
But he'd found himself remembering the challenge of helping Cinna, Finnick and Chaff and other Victors plan how to rescue Katniss and Peeta from the arena, persuading the more cautious Victors to take the rebels' side – and then later, in 13, listening to Coin, Plutarch and Beetee discussing tactics and sometimes offering a suggestion of his own.  
As a Victor, living under Snow's rule, he'd felt no desire to be part of anything which might benefit Panem. Why should he drop so much as a bead of sweat for the society which sent children to kill each other, and forced him to mentor them? But this was different. He'd still been thinking about it all when he'd walked through the gates of Victor's Village – and abruptly seen Katniss, pushing all such thoughts out of his head.  
As he turns to look at her now, watching her run her fingers through Buttercup's fur, he has no regrets about turning Plutarch down.  
She looks up at him and a moment passes before he turns back to the potatoes and tips them into the pan Sae is heating. Plutarch was wrong; he doesn't need to think it over. He's staying. 


	9. Chapter 9

****

**Chapter Nine**

_Katniss_  
That night, for the first time in months, I choose to sleep in my bed. As I drift off, the last thing I'm aware of is Buttercup's silhouette outlined against the curtains.  
The next day, as soon as breakfast is ready, I set off, bow slung over my back. I'm a little rusty after not having been hunting in so long, and twice I scare away my prey before I've managed to set up a clear shot. But when I do shoot, I manage to kill the doe with one arrow; she doesn't feel a thing. By the time I make it back to Victor's Village, the doe hoisted around my shoulders, I have sweat trickling down my back.  
Sae cooks venison for dinner. She takes all the meat we don't eat, along with the hide and the hooves and every other useful part, back to town. Despite regular deliveries of food from the Capitol, food is still far from plentiful, and all of us in 12 – on this side of the Seam, at least – have always been good at making use of every scrap we can get hold of.  
The next two weeks pass quickly. I go hunting every morning, take the prey into town, then in the evening I eat something of what I caught when Sae comes over to cook. I spend the afternoons going for walks or resting at home. It'll be a while still before I'm up to my full strength.  
Most afternoons Haymitch heads into town and helps clear away the last of the rubble. A couple of weeks ago I would have been highly sceptical of this development. But now it seems right somehow. I'm not the only one who's changed these last few weeks. Once the rubble is cleared, he's part of one of the teams setting up power, water, everything the growing population here needs. Sometimes I go with him and help. Every few afternoons he oversleeps and doesn't wake up till it's almost evening, but this happens with less and less frequency.  
In the evenings, like before, he crosses the square to my house, eats the meal Sae prepares for us all, then stays for a while, just sitting with me in the kitchen. Every evening his visits grow longer, until sometimes he stays for almost two hours. We never talk very much; neither of us is the talkative type. Buttercup hunkers on the table between us, and I scratch his ears. Before I go to sleep I've taken to leaving my bedroom curtains open so he can sit on the sill and watch nocturnal creatures creep and pounce in the night.  
One evening Haymitch brings along a chessboard and teaches me to play. I'm not the most patient student, but I try, to please him. Seeing him frown as he considers his next move brings back memories of him and Peeta playing chess in my room when I was ill a few weeks before the Quarter Quell.  
I wish I had something to teach him in return, but the only skills I know are to do with killing things, and he already knows more than enough about that himself from his Games and decades of mentoring tributes. I can sing, too, of course, but Haymitch doesn't strike me as the musical type.  
After months of letting the envelopes pile up on the table in the hall, I finally begin to read my mail. But first, I call Dr Aurelius. Like a professional, he shows no surprise when he hears my voice, but acts like my call is completely ordinary. During that first call, we mainly stick to the most perfunctory subjects: what are my eating habits, my sleeping habits? How often do I exercise? How many people do I interact with every day? When we finish talking, I promise to call him once a week.  
As I put down the phone I'm surprised by a new lightness I feel. Aurelius knows how to listen, and how to get people to talk, even people like me – but more importantly, he knows how to make them want to talk. I'd been dreading calling him, but perhaps this won't be as bad as I'd thought.  
That evening I mention the phone call to Haymitch. He doesn't say anything, but from the way he looks at me I can tell he's pleased, and proud.  
A few days later, after Haymitch misses an afternoon rebuilding in 12, I head over to his house with dinner. I haven't been over to his since before the Quarter Quell. Not much has changed. Bottles stand on the mantelpiece and the end tables, grouped near the sofa and the chairs. He's slumped in an armchair, and blinks up at me as I come into the room. Blearily, he starts to stand but I wave him back down.  
'I was about to come across to yours,' he grunts. He watches me, a new sharpness creeping into his eyes. He's not as drunk as I first thought. 'What are you doing here?' He eyes the container in my hands with mild suspicion.  
'Sae's taking the evening off, so I thought I'd bring dinner over here.'  
'She cook it?'  
I shift my feet. 'I did.'  
He blinks. 'Come again.'  
I manage to keep my tone even. 'It's true; I made it. I've watched Sae cook this at least fifty times, so I thought I'd give it a try.'  
'You did,' he says, unimpressed. 'Maybe you should stick to hunting, sweetheart.'  
I scowl. I'm about to snap something about how he ought to try eating it before he passes judgment – when he starts laughing.  
My eyes narrow. 'What?'  
'Nothing.' He composes himself. 'Why don't you go heat it up and we'll eat.'  
Twenty minutes later we're both in his sitting room, the empty soup bowls stacked on a side table.  
'That wasn't half bad,' Haymitch admits, taking a swig of his liquor. He's sitting at one end of the sofa and I'm at the other.  
'No need to sound so surprised,' I grumble, but I'm secretly pleased. Though I'd die before I told him, I feel an inner certainty that this dish will prove the only one I'll ever be able to make, so it needs to be good.  
'I'll tell you tomorrow if I get food poisoning.' He stretches his legs out in front of him, flexing his bare feet.  
'I've heard Hazel's back in town. Maybe she'd like her old job back.' I look meaningfully at the scattered bottles, the dirty plates.  
He doesn't bother to reply, instead taking another swig.  
'What are you going to do when the rebuilding's finished, Haymitch?' I ask. I'm surprised by my own question, but as I ask it, I realise how curious I am to hear the answer. In fact, I suddenly can't believe I've never asked him this before.  
He frowns at the blank television screen. 'I've been thinking about getting some geese,' he says at last.  
The answer is so unexpected that I laugh. He looks at me with the hint of a smile.  
'Effie's always nagging me to get a hobby. There's nothing she hasn't thought of. Hiking. Wood carving. Playing a harmonica.' He snorts. 'When I said no to all those, she suggested a dog. Or a cat – they can look after themselves, she didn't mind pointing out.'  
'So you decided on geese yourself?'  
'I might have… Said they'd remind me of her; bustling about, nagging and screeching.' He shakes his head. 'She wasn't too pleased, but I think she's forgiven me.'  
I look at him closely. 'How often do you talk to Effie?'  
He waves his bottle, the liquor sloshing. 'Oh every couple of weeks. Whenever she decides to check I haven't passed out in a pool of my own vomit.'  
I pull a face, but I'm thinking about one thing in particular: from the sound of his answer he really is planning to stay in 12, like he said by the lake.  
Without planning to, I reach out and prise the bottle from his fingers. He watches as I lift it to my lips and sip. I grimace; it's strong.  
He laughs, and pulls the bottle out of my hand. 'You'll have to do better than that.' He takes a sip, his eyes still on my face.  
I feel my cheeks warming – the alcohol must be taking effect faster than I thought. The glow spreads to my belly, through my limbs, and I lean back into the sofa.  
'It's nice not to drink alone,' he says. I can't quite tell if he's serious or not.

…

It doesn't always get easier. There are nights where I lie awake till dawn because I'm too scared to sleep, but even awake I still see the faces of dead tributes, the people who died in the hospital in District 8, and all those other faces I didn't know I remembered. Sometimes I go downstairs to the living room and fall asleep on the sofa, comforted by the faint glow coming from Haymitch's living room. In this village of ghosts it's good to be reminded I'm not alone.  
Every time I go into town, there are new faces that look at me curiously. People arrive by the day; whatever has happened here, this place is our home. Houses are being built daily, along with a temporary school for the growing number of children. With the mines closed, the adults plough the ashes into the earth and plant food. Machines arrive from the Capitol, which we'll use to break ground. The talk is that a factory will be built, where we'll make medicines.  
I go for walks in the woods. Sometimes I go to Haymitch's lake. It's always peaceful there. I sing and listen to the mockingjays singing back.

…

_Haymitch_  
Though he'd laughed when Effie had mentioned it, her suggestion that he take up wood carving had stuck in his mind ('You always have that ridiculous knife on you so you might as well put it to good use'). He and his brother had once spent a summer learning to carve in the hope of making some money on the rich side of the Seam. His carvings hadn't been much good, but his brother's had been beautiful.  
Now he's working on something, after decades without practice. Each time he takes it out it looks worse than he remembers, but he keeps going. There's something soothing about watching the shavings peel off and fall, a shape slowly emerging out of what had once been a simple block of wood. He thinks of Peeta's paintings; this must be why he did them.  
Something about carving lets him entertain thoughts about the past and future – thoughts he usually only feels able to brave at the bottom of a bottle – before forgetting them the next morning. Ever since Snow had his family murdered, he hadn't imagined a life for himself beyond mentoring doomed tributes and slowly drinking himself to death. But then Katniss and Peeta had been reaped, and everything had changed. For the first time he'd had a tribute who stood a chance of winning – and another tribute who would lay down his life for the other to survive. He'd let himself believe they might see Katniss to victory – and then, thanks to Katniss's stunt with the berries, Peeta had survived, too. No more mentoring alone – he'd have not one but two fellow Victors. But his world had shifted even more drastically than the matter of Victors – because the berries were an act of rebellion, and after that everything had changed.  
Throughout the following year and a half he hadn't had time to make plans for the distant future; he'd been too busy scrabbling to ensure an immediate future in which both Katniss and Peeta were alive and safe. He'd succeeded in keeping them alive – but he'd mostly failed when it came to keeping them safe. Now the war is over, and the dangers are gone, and the future stretches ahead of him like an empty sky.  
He puts down his knife and looks at the carving, turning it over in his hands. In another evening or two it'll be finished.

…

The next evening when dinner is over he and Katniss get up by mutual consent, go into the living room and watch the news together. One of the interviews is with Gale Hawthorne; he answers questions about revised military training with unrelenting seriousness. Haymitch glances at Katniss; she's looking straight at the screen, her face carefully blank.  
Sensing his gaze, she speaks quietly. 'He's in Two. Got a fancy new job. Greasy Sae told me.'  
Haymitch takes a sip of liquor: to his surprise and amusement she'd produced the bottle for him from a cupboard in her kitchen. Oh yes, he's sure 2 suits Hawthorne very well. He remembers catching glimpses of him in 13, a steely glint in his eye as he marched about doing Coin's bidding.  
Katniss holds out a hand and he passes the bottle to her. She takes a sip, wipes her lips, hands the bottle back. 'Heard anything from Plutarch?'  
Haymitch feels his expression souring. Katniss looks at him curiously. 'We haven't really kept in contact. But from the looks of things he's doing very well for himself.' He waves the bottle in the direction of the television, where, as luck would have it, a spotlight for Plutarch's choir is just starting. They listen to a few verses of 'Deep in the Meadow' before Katniss reaches for the remote and resolutely turns off the power.  
She has her legs drawn up to her chest, her chin resting on her knees and she looks so uncharacteristically sweet that Haymitch feels a sudden urge to put an arm around her. He takes another drink instead.  
A few minutes pass in silence. When Katniss shifts to get more comfortable Buttercup jumps onto her lap and curls up. Within seconds, Katniss has him purring loudly. 'Little Gracie was telling me there are nearly enough children in 12 for four classes now. Soon the school won't be big enough for them all.'  
She continues talking, looking down at Buttercup, but he's only listening with half an ear, suddenly intensely aware of how close she is. He can smell the clean scent of her hair, and without warning remembers how he once imagined running his finger along her braid. How would it feel to run his fingers through her hair as it is now, loose and falling over her shoulders? He digs his nails into his palms. Get a grip, he thinks.  
Oblivious, Katniss drags her fingers through Buttercup's fur, coaxing a purr.  
Haymitch never knew he could feel envious of a cat.

…

_Katniss_  
I fall silent, scratching Buttercup's ears. He gets up and kneads my thighs – luckily I have a blanket over my legs in anticipation, having learned the hard way how sharp his claws are – then resettles himself on my knees. I glance at Haymitch – and he looks away quickly, frowning.  
I'm tempted to ask him what the matter is, but he doesn't look like he wants to talk about it.  
'Dr Aurelius said Peeta will be back soon.'  
Haymitch's expression doesn't change, but he's silent for a long time.  
I find myself wondering how it will be when Peeta comes back. How will I feel when I see him for the first time since leaving the Capitol – when he stopped me from taking my suicide capsule after I killed Coin? What will he think when he sees me? What will he expect to happen between us? What do I expect to happen between us? These are all questions which will have to wait until his return to be answered. Thinking about them makes me anxious, so I push them aside.  
Haymitch is staring at the black television screen, his eyes hooded. 'He sent me a letter a couple weeks ago. Just saying what he's been up to, how his treatment's going.' He looks at me. 'Want to read it?'  
I hesitate. 'Yes.' I'm surprised by how much I want to. When I was going through my pile of letters none of them were from Peeta and I wondered what that meant. Now as I read his letter to Haymitch there's no mention of me, not even once. Like Haymitch said, the letter is all about his treatment and his progress. He says he's heard about the rebuilding in 12, but that's it. Part of me is relieved, but there's also a pang of disappointment, and anxiety. Has Peeta gone back to hating me, like he did in 13? Or when he comes back to 12 will he treat me with cold indifference? Because I don't think I could face that. Even if my feelings are too confused to be seen clearly, I know I still care about him, and some part of me hopes I still mean something to him.  
'It takes time,' says Haymitch quietly. 'We just have to wait for him.'  
I glance up in surprise. He's watching me closely and I wonder how many of my thoughts he guessed from my face. But he's right. Peeta is getting better – and that's more than I ever hoped for at one point.  
'I know.' I pass the letter back to him and he pockets it without comment.

…

The weather gets warmer every day, until on my daily walk I'm almost too warm in my hunting jacket. In the evenings, Haymitch helps me answer my mail. More than once, his dictations make me laugh out loud – and when this happens he always looks at me with a glint in his eye that I'm starting to get familiar with. Once a week, I get Sae to take an evening off and I make stew again and take it across to Haymitch's.  
One evening after dinner at mine, when we've finished washing up, Haymitch tells me to go on into the sitting room while he goes to his house to fetch something. I sit on the sofa to wait, Buttercup at my side, wondering what Haymitch went to get, and dimly remembering the events of today, which we spent in 12 helping unload building supplies from the Capitol train. One of the boxes I opened contained a stack of fashion magazines displaying full body tattoos, reminding me of Tigris, the Capitol woman with the face like a tiger who gave me shelter in her basement. None of the models wore clothes. I went red in the face when I saw them, but Haymitch just quirked an eyebrow, put the box back on the train and said, 'Pretty sure these were supposed to stay in the Capitol.'  
A couple of minutes later he's back. I see him cross the street, then hear the back door open as he lets himself into the kitchen. A few seconds later he appears in the doorway of the sitting room, where he hesitates. He's holding a small package, wrapped in brown paper. His eyes dart to mine, then he looks away, chewing his lip.  
'Is something wrong?' I prompt, getting to my feet.  
'I, uh… Open it, will you?' He holds out the parcel.  
I take it warily. 'What is it?'  
He shakes his head. 'Just open it.'  
I frown, but comply. Inside is a wooden bird, a little bigger than my fist, hand-carved from the look of it. I'm not quite sure if it's a duck or a goose. Its standing with its neck very straight, and there's something imperious about the set of its head.  
'Did you make this?' I can't quite hide my surprise.  
He shifts, not quite meeting my eyes. 'Yeah, I did.'  
'Thanks...' Then I narrow my eyes. 'You made it for me? Not for Sae's granddaughter or someone?'  
He laughs, exasperated. 'Jesus! Yes, I made it for you.'  
'I, uh, thank you.' I touch the carving carefully, noting the smoothness of the wings and back. 'It's a lovely … duck.'  
'It's a goose, actually.' But he's smiling.  
'Oh. Sorry.' I feel myself flushing. I never say the right thing. Peeta would know what to say – he wouldn't even have to think about it. But me – even when I try the words never come out right.  
'The neck's a bit short… I made it for your box of things.'  
I look at him.  
'Peeta's locket, your parents' wedding photo, the spile I sent you… Only Effie was missing.'  
In a flash I remember his joke about raising geese, and I laugh. He laughs with me, the sound soft, his eyes glinting.  
I think of how long it must have taken him to carve the goose. And he did it for me. One more thing to cheer me up, make everything around me a little easier.  
Then I frown, my happiness fading. 'But I didn't get you anything.'  
He blinks at me. 'Sweetheart, I didn't expect anything.' Then he pauses. 'But if you really feel guilty you can always get me a bottle of the Capitol's finest brandy. Beetee tells me it's something else.' He's smiling – he really isn't offended that I didn't get him anything, and I feel a rush of relief.  
An impulse takes hold of me, and before I know what I'm doing I put my arms around his neck and step in close. 'Thanks, Haymitch. It's perfect.'  
His arms are around me, hands firm and steady on my back. 'Good to hear, sweetheart,' he says quietly. I can feel his cheek warm and rough against mine, and as I breathe in I smell a sharp male scent mixed with the familiar burn of liquor.  
I feel my heart beating hard in my chest, but before I can think about what this might mean he pulls back, and I step away, not quite ready to.  
'Katniss…'  
My eyes go straight to his face. 'Yes?'  
He hesitates, lips slightly parted. But before he can speak there's a loud knock at the front door and he cuts himself off. We stare at each other. Who could it be? No one ever visits this late. No one ever really visits, apart from Sae. I turn the wooden goose over in my hands, wondering if we imagined the knock, wishing we had – and not sure why I would feel this way.

…

_Haymitch_  
Katniss is staring down at her hands, fiddling with the goose. He can still feel how it felt to hold her for that brief moment, before he'd made himself pull away. He doesn't quite know what he wanted to say to her – but inwardly he curses the visitor all the same.  
'I'll get it,' he offers. He sees her eyes dart to him just before he ducks into the hall. He walks slowly down the passage, gathering composure. With a sigh, he pulls open the door.  
It's Peeta.  
It's obvious he was expecting to see Katniss: they both blink at each other, equally surprised.  
The boy's changed from when Haymitch last saw him in the Capitol. His facial burns have healed and there's a calm stillness about him that hasn't been there in over a year. The sight stirs a rush of affection and relief and for a moment Haymitch can't speak. He feels himself grinning and sees Peeta grin back, even as his eyes shift sideways over Haymitch's shoulder –  
'Peeta!' Katniss's voice is a gasp, momentarily stunned. But seconds later she tears down the hallway, flinging herself past Haymitch and into Peeta's arms. She hugs him tight, her face buried in his neck and Peeta's arms wrap around her.  
As Haymitch watches them he can feel his smile fading and something cold and hard starts spreading through his insides. He should be overjoyed, seeing his two Victors reunited at last. This is what he's been waiting for. But all he can think about is the look on Katniss's face as she ran straight past him, into the boy's embrace. 


	10. Chapter 10

****

**Chapter Ten**

_Katniss_  
Seeing Peeta standing there is so unexpected that for a moment I can't move. I stare at him, taking in how much healthier he looks – and how he hovers in the doorway. He's smiling at Haymitch and it's like seeing a glimpse of the old Peeta. Then he sees me and my legs start moving before I can think – just like how I ran when I heard he'd been rescued from the Capitol. His arms surround me, like before, but at the same time all I can think about are the differences. I can feel that some of his strength is gone, worn away by torture and recovery – like me it'll take a while to build that strength up again. He smells different, unfamiliar, almost like it's not him after all.  
He pulls away and looks at me shyly. 'Hi.'  
It takes me a second to find my voice and I'm suddenly embarrassed by how I ran to him. What will he think it meant? 'Hi.'  
It's then that I notice how tense he is. There's something tight in his expression – and I know at once that Peeta isn't fully healed yet. Maybe he never will be. I sense Haymitch nearby, and know that he's realised the same thing.  
But a second later Peeta's hands unclench and he manages a small smile, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. He looks at me fleetingly, then at Haymitch, then at the floor. 'Sorry,' he says quietly. 'I'm not one hundred per cent yet. Dr Aurelius tried to get me to stay me in the Capitol for a few more weeks – but I couldn't stay there another day.' He pauses. 'I tried to call first, to give you some warning. But no one answered.'  
His voice is carefully controlled, and he's still looking at the floor. I can't take my eyes off his face.  
'I'll be moving back into my old house.' The corner of his mouth lifts in a small smile. 'So you'll know where to find me.' He raises his head and smiles first at Haymitch, then at me. 'Well, goodnight.' Then he turns and heads out through the open door and down the steps.  
I take half a step after him, his name on my lips – but then I stop. I watch him cross the street and go into his house, shutting the door.  
'It'll get easier,' Haymitch says behind me, his voice barely audible. 'Give him some time to get used to you again.'  
I tear my eyes away from Peeta's house and look at Haymitch. He's right. Peeta's so much better than he was in the Capitol, and I have to focus on that.  
He nods, exhales. 'Well, I'll see you tomorrow.' He sounds strained. Maybe he's worried I'll start slipping back into the shell I once was, retreating to the rocking chair and never leaving.  
I open my mouth, then close it again, not sure what I wanted to say. He waits. 'Goodnight, Haymitch.'  
His smile is fleeting, scarcely there. ''Night.'

…

_Haymitch_  
The day after Peeta's return, Haymitch sleeps in until it's almost evening, waking with the worst hangover he's had in weeks. He heads over to Katniss's with dragging steps, lets himself in through the back door – and sees at once that Peeta isn't there. He's not sure whether he's more relieved or disappointed.  
Katniss sits at the table with a glassy look in her eyes, only smiling at him briefly as he sits down opposite her. He's tempted to get up, make some excuse so he can leave, but he knows she needs him there, until Peeta's settled in enough to visit.  
While she cooks, Sae informs them that Peeta's asked the Capitol for supplies for a bakery here in 12. Paylor approved the request at once, and supplies were secured in a matter of hours. 'The flour and the ovens will be coming tomorrow, on the Capitol train,' Sae says. 'In a couple days we'll be having fresh bread again.'  
Katniss just stares into her soup. There's no meat today; clearly she couldn't muster the will to go hunting.

…

Two days later Haymitch is with Katniss in 12 helping move supplies for the temporary infirmary when they see Peeta walking past, carrying a sack of flour. Katniss falters, her face lighting up, but Peeta just nods, half-smiles, and keeps walking. Her smile freezes on her lips. For the rest of the afternoon she's quiet, barely paying attention as she stacks rolls of bandages into cupboards.  
That evening Haymitch goes to knock on Peeta's door after seeing him arrive home, covered in flour, an hour earlier.  
He waits for a long time before the door is answered.  
'Haymitch.' Peeta doesn't quite smile. He looks exhausted. 'I can't see you right now. I'm sorry. I wouldn't be good company. I worked too much today, and my medicine…'  
Haymitch feels a knot of pity. He finds himself remembering how Peeta looked on the day of his first reaping – young, scared, but comparatively less careworn. 'It's all right. I get it. Just checking how you are.'  
Peeta does smile this time. 'Thanks, Haymitch. I appreciate it.'  
Haymitch shrugs, embarrassed. 'Yeah, well. Just doing my job.' He pauses. 'Katniss misses you. Why don't you go see her?'  
Peeta looks down, searching for the right words. 'I'm sorry, but I can't. Not for a few more days at least. Aurelius told me I need to think about myself first, get settled in here properly, before I see her. Otherwise … it would be so easy to fall back to square one.'  
He means his flashbacks, Haymitch realises. 'All right.' He wants to tell Peeta that he's sorry about everything that happened to him, but he doesn't know how to say it.  
Peeta smiles; and Haymitch knows he understands. 'See you in a few days, then.'  
Haymitch jerks his chin in farewell. 'Yeah. 'Night.'  
As Haymitch walks down the steps Peeta calls his name. He turns back. Peeta has one foot on the front steps.  
'Did Katniss … did she ever talk about me?'  
He looks away. 'I don't know. For the first month and a half she didn't really talk at all.'  
Peeta's digests this. 'I can understand that.' He gives Haymitch a quick smile, starts to step back into the house. 'Well, goodnight.'  
Haymitch stands still, his fingers tensing. Then – 'Wait.'  
The boy turns back, expectant.  
'I gave her one of your letters to read.' He pauses. 'Anyone could see how glad she was that you were getting better.'  
Peeta goes still, his face working. 'Thanks, Haymitch. That means a lot.'

…

_Katniss_  
It's been a week since Peeta got back, and he still hasn't talked to me or even waved to me. If he sees me in town he makes sure to keep out of my way. I try not to take it personally, telling myself it's just taking him a while to settle in. But I can't stop worrying that his distant behaviour is caused by something I've done – or haven't done. These thoughts creep into my mind in the middle of the night, keeping me awake for hours. I find it difficult to concentrate while hunting, and take increasingly long walks in the afternoon to distract myself. When I'm at home I jump whenever the back door opens, thinking it's Peeta, but it's always Sae, or Haymitch.  
What was it that made Peeta decide to come back so suddenly? And what does he expect from me? Does he want friendship? Or more than friendship? Because I don't think I could be that way with anyone. Not now. Not for a long time.  
One morning half my arrows miss – and I decide this agitation has gone on long enough. As soon as I've dropped the game off in 12 I march to Haymitch's. If anyone can tell me what I need to do, it's him.  
Haymitch blinks up at me from his armchair, his eyes glazed. Clearly I've interrupted an introspective drinking session, but I'm too worked up to apologise.  
'Good of you to drop by,' he comments dryly, as I flop into the chair opposite him.  
'It's Peeta.' I fight the urge to bite my nails, which are already almost down to the quick. 'I don't understand. He looked so happy when he saw me – the night he came back.' I hate talking about this, admitting how much it bothers me. But I have to talk to someone, and Haymitch understands me better than anyone. 'I need to see him. But I don't know how when he never gives me a chance.'  
Haymitch makes an indistinct noise.  
My head snaps up. 'What?'  
There's a wry set to his mouth as he looks at me, but it's sour. 'Sure. You mean the chance where you finally give him the time of day and go knock on his door.'  
I stare at him. 'What are you talking about? He's avoiding me.'  
His eyes have a shuttered look. 'Have you ever stopped to think that he might feel the same about you?'  
At first I'm too annoyed to think about anything. But then, painfully, his words sink in. Oh. My face goes red, and I'm all too aware of what my expression must look like.  
He laughs. There's something hard and cynical about the sound. 'And the coin drops.' He gets up, swaying slightly. 'Now if you don't mind, I've got things to do.' He crosses to the other side of the room and gropes through a crate of liquor.  
I watch him pull out bottles, weighing them to see how full they are. He has his back to me, and I feel my temper rising. 'Oh sure,' I say bitterly. 'You mean drink. Because that always helps so much.'  
He whirls on me, eyes flashing darkly. 'Listen, girl; I don't know what to tell you.'  
I flinch. He hasn't been this angry with me in months, and his anger hurts more than I expected.  
At once he relents. 'Sorry.' He runs a hand across his face and I realise how tired he looks. 'You have to be patient. He hadn't seen you in three months – and the last time he saw you he was still mostly hijacked. These things take time. Give the boy a chance.'  
Somehow these words strike a chord deep in me. Time. Like he's given me time, over and over again. Surely I can manage to give Peeta the same patience Haymitch has given me.  
He's waiting for me to respond. I manage a weak nod. We look at each other for a moment before I leave.  
I don't go straight home but head into the woods to clear my head. I know Peeta won't be back until evening, so there's no point knocking on his door and I don't want to interrupt him at the bakery. I walk for almost two hours before I get back to Victor's Village. My head is bowed as I reach the steps to my house – and almost trip over Peeta.  
He must have been sitting on the steps, but springs to his feet when he sees me coming. He's holding a cloth-wrapped bundle in his arms.  
I stare at him and he looks back at me good-naturedly. 'You could have gone inside,' I say at last, then immediately feel rude.  
He doesn't seem to notice. Probably it's all he expects of me. 'I didn't want to go in while you weren't there.' He stands, wipes his hands on his apron. I can see traces of flour. There's a smudge on his cheek. The old Katniss might have felt the urge to wipe it away.  
'I made you some cheese buns,' he says. 'They're from the first batch. Haymitch had one too; he says it tasted good, though it would've tasted better if I hadn't woken him up.'  
A tiny smirk settles on my lips. 'Sounds like him.'  
He smiles back, and that smile brings back a wave of memories, so that my own smile fades. He shifts. 'Are you going to let me in?'  
'Oh. Sorry.'  
We head inside and he places the bundle on the kitchen table, looking around the room, taking in the small changes since he was last there. His eyes linger on the mantelpiece, where I've put Haymitch's carving. He turns back to me.  
'You look well.'  
'So do you.' It's true. There's a healthy glow to his cheeks that wasn't there when he arrived a week ago. Starting up the bakery must be doing him a world of good.  
'I'm sorry for staying away so long,' he says. 'You must have thought I was avoiding you.'  
'I'm sorry too,' I mumble. 'You must have thought the same about me.'  
He smiles. 'Well, I guess that makes us square.' He hesitates. 'The truth is… I guess I really was avoiding you. But it wasn't to hurt you. I just wasn't ready to see you. All the memories…'  
The silence becomes painful. He runs a hand through his hair, leaving behind faint dustings of flour. 'Look. This is awkward for both of us. I just want to say: I don't expect anything from you.' Then he grimaces. 'That didn't come out right. What I'm trying to say is – everything that happened before this – none of it matters any more. I mean, of course it matters, but it's in the past, and it can stay there until we're ready to talk about it again. I don't know how much Aurelius told you, but these last couple of months have been really hard for me. And I know they must have been hard for you. I nearly didn't come back at all. But in the end I did.' He pauses, studying the floor.  
'Why did you come back?' I ask nervously.  
'Twelve is my home. After everything, I still feel that way. I know the people – and I want to help them put this place back together again. That's why I'm here.'  
So he didn't come back for me. The thought makes me disappointed somehow – and relieved.  
'So, whatever happens from now on, it'll be because we want it to. Not because of the Capitol, or because of a war we've both been forced to take part in.' He looks at me. 'Agreed?' He offers his hand, still slightly sticky with flour.  
I look at it for a moment, then shake it firmly.  
We both manage tiny smiles. Then he wishes me a good evening and heads across to his house. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to lha1. Do go and read her brilliant Haymitch/Katniss modern AUs on fanfiction.net, The Long Way Home, and the endlessly entertaining Wake Me Up Before You Go, both complete, and both published in The Hunger Games, Book section of the website.

**Chapter Eleven**

As the days go by Peeta and I spend more and more time together. Every afternoon after stopping by at Haymitch's, Peeta comes by mine to drop off cheese buns and talk for a bit. At first we stick to safe topics, like his bakery and my hunting trips. Our talks are filled with awkward silences as we both search for something to say that won't bring up the past. Despite our agreement that we'd start over as friends and nothing more, with no expectations or obligations, our shared history is too much to just set aside. But gradually we grow more comfortable together and he tells me about his treatment in the Capitol, and his visits from Annie Cresta and her new-born son. During these conversations I realise how much I've missed him; his kindness, his optimism, his humour.  
Usually, when Sae and Haymitch arrive, Peeta's still here and he ends up staying for dinner, sometimes bringing pastries for desert. Somehow five people seems like a lot more than the four I'm used to – four counting Sae's granddaughter, Gracie – but I decide I like it, after a few days' getting used to it. These five people have become my family, and perhaps in some way they feel the same.  
Haymitch doesn't say very much during these dinners. I guess it's taking him a while to get used to Peeta being back, and he could never be called talkative. Where he used to stay for an hour or two, sitting with me in the living room, he now goes home as soon as the dishes are stacked away, claiming tiredness. It's easy to believe him: whenever I see him his face is drawn and he hardly smiles – I know he's been putting in lots of extra hours helping Thom with rebuilding, preparing housing for the influx of new arrivals wanting to make their homes in 12. The other reason he's leaving early, the one he won't say, is to give me and Peeta space. I'm grateful for his thoughtfulness, but I wish he'd stay.  
One afternoon I go over to Haymitch's while he's at home. It's the first time we've been alone since our argument when I asked him for advice about Peeta. The memory of his frustration with me that afternoon, his mocking laughter, the unfamiliar edge to his voice, still twinges painfully – and I do my best to shove it aside. It's not something I want to bring up again, and I expect it's the same for him.  
Haymitch looks surprised to see me – and not particularly happy. 'What do you want?'  
Part of me wants to tell him I'm worried about him, but I know he'd laugh at me, so instead I say, 'Got something to drink?'  
He laughs – but it's not mocking like the other one would have been. 'Help yourself.'  
I grab a bottle from the floor and sink into the chair opposite his. The liquor burns and I cough, gasping for breath.  
'Thought you have your own supply now,' he says dryly. I've been keeping a few bottles in my kitchen for his visits, though they haven't been touched for the last couple of weeks.  
'Don't drink on my own,' I splutter, throat still raw.  
He raises his eyebrows as I start coughing again. 'Maybe you should put in some practice. Want some water?' he asks, when he sees my eyes starting to tear up.  
'I'm ok.' I take another sip and this time it goes down smoothly.  
He waits, and I sense he wants an explanation for my visit.  
'We never seem to spend any time together anymore.' The words sound pathetic out loud, and I redden.  
He frowns. 'I'm over every evening.'  
'It's not the same. I miss it.'  
His voice is matter-of-fact, his expression barely flickering. 'No you don't.'  
I narrow my eyes. 'You're right. I don't. Why would I? Now I don't have to look at your bare feet on my footstool every evening.'  
He snorts and the corner of his lips twitches upwards.  
I keep my face neutral, but inside I feel a thrill of satisfaction.  
I ask him about the rebuilding and he tells me a story about an unstable ladder and an inept building inspector from the Capitol. I can't help laughing, and he watches me with a small smile.  
Then he glances at the clock and frowns. 'Peeta'll be along soon.'  
I follow his gaze and see he's right. I hadn't realised my visit had gone so quickly. I stand up.  
'You won't stay to walk back with Peeta?' Haymitch asks.  
'No, I'll see him at home.' I pull on my jacket. Suddenly I feel almost shy. 'We should do this again sometime,' I mumble.  
His eyes are thoughtful as he looks up at me. 'Yeah, we should.'  
'See you at dinner.' I leave, a lightness in my step that I can't remember experiencing in a while.

…

_Haymitch_  
As he watches her go, he's aware of a warm glow in him that for once has nothing to do with alcohol.  
Every evening he's joined them at Katniss's house, he's watched Peeta and Katniss growing more comfortable together, and he's felt himself drawing back, distancing himself. Seeing the two of them growing back together is what he's been waiting for, he tells himself, but that still can't stop the way his stomach sinks when he sees the occasional look or smile that passes between them at the table, or when they're helping out in town together.  
He's well-aware of the irony of the small part he's played in bringing them together again. He'd hoped it would help him accept Peeta's return, and what it means for Katniss. And for Peeta himself – the boy deserves all the happiness he can get, though it hurts to see him start to find it with Katniss.  
Since Katniss came to him for advice, he's managed to settle into resignation. Katniss doesn't need him like she used to; Peeta's here now, and it's time he stepped back. It's better this way; maybe these feelings will fade if he doesn't see her as often. And he'll be able to face Peeta without any guilt.  
When Katniss had shown up in his sitting room an hour ago he'd been reluctant, sure she'd come to ask him for advice about Peeta again. But she hadn't, and gradually his misgivings had faded away until he'd found himself enjoying her visit. Just seeing her sitting opposite him was enough; almost like it's just the two of them again, in the small life they'd carved out of the ruins of Victor's Village. He's missed it more than he's allowed himself to admit. If he can have these occasional moments with her, he thinks, he won't need anything more. He can accept that she and Peeta are meant to be, if he could still see her sometimes, like this. And maybe he'll learn to put this useless longing behind him.

…

Late one afternoon he's walking back to Victor's Village, his steps slow with tiredness. It's chilly for the end of April; but the sun warms his back as he climbs the hill and the clear blue sky is like a promise of better times to come.  
He's spent the day helping prepare the new town hall for its opening. Fixing new doors, smoothing down walls and knocking out nails, carrying in dozens of chairs and desks. Tomorrow a small ceremony will be held, and the town hall will be declared open. It's an important step forward for the district. Next week an election will be held and they'll have a new mayor, someone to see them through the rest of the rebuilding, into a period of peace and growth – or that's what the news channels claim anyhow.  
He walks through the gates of Victor's Village. The square is deserted – and after his initial relief he feels a pang of disappointment. He makes for his house, his steps quickening, when Katniss calls his name.  
He turns back, waits as she crosses to him from her steps. Her face is bright, eager. As she comes to a stop in front of him, his gaze is drawn by a smudge of dark earth on her throat, hiding one of the moles on her skin.  
They stand in silence. A few days have passed since her visit. Although they haven't spoken of it since, he's thought about it often. Seeing her here, her eyes gleaming and warm, pushes away all the awkwardness of the last two weeks and he finds himself smiling back at her. A real smile.  
'You look happy,' he offers.  
'Delly's back; Delly Cartwright. Peeta called me from town. She arrived just now, with her little brother. I'm on my way to meet them now.'  
Delly Cartwright. It takes him a moment to place the name. Then he remembers – the sweet, startlingly optimistic girl from 12 who'd helped Peeta through de-hijacking.  
He grins. 'How could I forget? She was your biggest fan. Waxing lyrical about your sunshiny personality.'  
Katniss laughs, shaking her head. 'She always sees the bright side.'  
He snorts. 'More like the deluded side.'  
She bites back a grin. 'How are you?' she asks. The smile lingers on her mouth, her eyes focused on his face. She looks so happy to see him, and he doesn't want this moment to end. By some pull, his eyes are drawn back to the mark on her throat.  
'Going to the opening ceremony tomorrow?' she asks.  
But he's not really listening, not really thinking as he reaches out and gently starts to rub the smudge of earth away. 'Hold still a second,' he murmurs. She's motionless, her eyes fixed on his face as his fingers rest against the side of her neck, his thumb smoothing away the mark.  
'There was some dirt,' he explains, taking his hand away. 'How'd it get there?'  
Her cheeks look pink and it takes her a moment to speak, her head ducking, hiding her eyes. 'I … It must have been while I was hunting.' Her fingers go to the spot on her neck, touching briefly. She clears her throat. 'Sometimes – I get earth on my hands when I'm tracking.'  
He feels a smile tugging at the side of his mouth. Now her eyes lift and she's looking straight at him. Suddenly he realises how close they're standing. With an effort he takes a step back.  
'Will you come into town with me?' she asks. 'To see Delly?'  
Part of him wants to go, because she's asked him. But it's probably better if he's not there. He doesn't want anything to spoil this moment. 'I don't know her that well. I'll see her another time. You're the one she wants to see.'  
'All right.' She looks disappointed. 'Well, I'll see you tonight.'  
He nods goodbye, then turns and goes up his steps while she walks to the gates. At his door he turns and watches her till she's out of sight, then lets himself inside. For want of anything better to do, he wanders into his sitting room, flops into his armchair and reaches for an already opened bottle.  
As the rim touches his lips, reality creeps up on him, blunt and cold.  
The more he thinks about that moment with Katniss in the square, the more he's sure it can't be repeated. What had he been thinking? But that was exactly the problem. He hadn't been thinking anything. He's supposed to be letting go of his feelings for her, not encouraging them. More importantly, it's not fair on her. He doesn't know what she was thinking then, but the last thing he wants is to spoil their friendship. He shouldn't have done it. He shouldn't feel like this.  
And yet he can't stop thinking of the way she'd looked at him, eyes quiet, like a breath taken in the midst of silence.  
He can't stay in 12. He knows that now. But he's never wanted to stay so much.

…

That night he doesn't go over to dinner, and he misses the next few evenings as well, telling Peeta he's too tired when the boy stops by to drop off bread. Katniss comes by to ask him what's wrong, but he tells her the same thing; and she leaves quickly, disappointed, and not completely convinced, he can tell. As she'd lingered in the doorway, the smoothness of her neck, the look in her eyes as she'd lifted them to his – came back to him with a jolt, before he shoved the memory away.  
She and Peeta have their routine now and there's no need for him to keep visiting. He spends increasingly long hours helping with the rebuilding in the district. He never sees Katniss except from a distance; they hardly ever cross paths now that she's doubled her hunting efforts in response to the never-ending flow of arrivals in 12. Sometimes he sees her go into the bakery after dropping off her prey in town. It's always an hour or two before she leaves again.  
Late one afternoon Haymitch is drifting in and out of sleep when the phone rings. Instantly, his mood sours. Plutarch has been calling him every few days to remind him the offer of a job in 5 still stands. Haymitch always turns him down, but the ex-Gamemaker doesn't give up easily.  
But it's Effie who greets him over the line. They talk for a bit about her hectic job and 12's new mayor before she gets to her real reason for calling. 'How are Peeta and Katniss getting along?' She can't hide her eagerness; Haymitch can picture the enraptured expression on her face.  
He swallows. 'Everything's fine. They spend most afternoons together, after he finishes up in the bakery. They planted a rosebush outside Katniss's window – primroses.'  
'For Prim…' breathes Effie. 'Oh how thoughtful! That's Peeta all over.'  
'Yeah. He's a good kid.'  
'It's so good they have each other again. I hope they haven't forgotten about you,' she teases.  
He manages a dull laugh. 'Not likely. I don't think I'll ever run out of fresh bread.'  
'That boy is a saint. After everything he's been through.' She sighs. 'Well, I know I can count on you to look after them, Haymitch. I can sleep easier knowing you're keeping an eye on them – and they're keeping an eye on you. My Victors. I'm so proud of you all.'  
''Bye, Effie. Look after yourself.'  
'Goodbye, Haymitch.'  
He hangs up. Barely a second later there's a knock at the front door before it opens and the smell of fresh bread wafts towards him. He rubs a hand over his eyes and levers himself upright. Usually he just stays in his chair when Peeta comes, but today he can't sit still.  
He makes his way to the kitchen, where Peeta joins him, carrying two bundles of bread – one for Haymitch, one for Katniss, which he'll take with him when he crosses to her house.  
'Sorry I'm late,' Peeta says. Every day he looks healthier, stronger. Soon he'll be able to throw sacks of flour again. 'I was making something for Katniss.' He smiles.  
'Oh yeah?' Haymitch turns away to pour himself some water. He offers Peeta some, but the boy shakes his head.  
'It's her birthday on Thursday. I thought I'd make her one of the cakes from each district, from the Victory Tour.' He shakes his head, smiling to himself. 'The food tasting was about the only thing we really enjoyed about that trip.'  
Haymitch nods, staring down at the glass in his hand without drinking. Her birthday. He'd forgotten. Suddenly the date comes to him with a jolt: May 8th. He knows, because it was printed on the release forms he signed to get her out of the Capitol. He wonders what to get her, if she expects anything. He's sure that whatever he could think of would never be as thoughtful as what Peeta's come up with. How typical. That Peeta knows exactly what to get her and he has no idea.  
With an effort he looks back at Peeta. 'It's a good idea.'  
Peeta nods, but his thoughts are now elsewhere. He sets the bread down on the table. 'This isn't just one of my usual visits,' he begins. 'First, I wanted to say thank you. You and Katniss – you're both being so patient with me, and I want you to know how grateful I am for that.'  
'Doesn't need saying,' Haymitch says quickly. 'I know. She knows.'  
Peeta smiles. 'And I know. But I still wanted to say it.' His eyes gleam with humour, like they used to before his hijacking, and Haymitch looks away. The smell of the clove-spiced bread is starting to overpower him. Feeling ill, he opens a window.  
Peeta hardly notices, his gaze focused on the table top without really seeing it, choosing his next words. 'Some days can be a real struggle for me – and it makes me realise all over again how difficult these last few months must have been for Katniss – and how you were there to see her through it. Really, Haymitch. If you hadn't been there for her I know she wouldn't be like she is now.'  
Haymitch avoids his eyes. 'She's tough. Strong.'  
'Sure. But she couldn't have done it without you.'  
Haymitch makes a noncommittal noise in his throat, and turns away. A dozen not-quite-drained bottles stand on the counter. He grabs a handful and starts emptying them into the sink, something he hasn't bothered with in weeks, an excuse to keep his back turned.  
'Katniss misses you. She doesn't say it – you know how she is – but at least once a meal she'll look at that goose you made her.'  
A bitter smile tugs at Haymitch's lips. For a moment he wishes he'd never made the carving.  
'We talked about what it was like, before I came back. She told me you were there for her. Every evening, without fail.'  
The inside of his mouth turns sour. 'But now you're here.' He smiles, but it feels wrong. He watches the last of the foam swirl down the sinkhole.  
'I know you used to sit together in the evenings, after dinner. That shouldn't have to stop just because I'm here. You're important to her.'  
He doesn't even try to keep the impatience from his voice. 'I've been busy, that's all. Thom needs all the help he can get.'  
'Sure. I understand. Just … go and see her soon, all right? She's been different lately. Quieter. I think she misses you more than she wants people to know. You always did get her better than the rest of us could. Those gifts you sent her in the Games –'  
Haymitch rams the window shut with a bang. Peeta cuts himself off, startled.  
'Sorry,' Haymitch grunts, his back turned. 'There was a draft.' He forces himself to get a grip. But he doesn't think he can stand to hear another word about Katniss – not from Peeta.  
'I hear the girl – Delly Cartwright –'s been helping you out at the bakery.'  
Peeta smiles, his momentary wariness forgotten. 'That's right. I don't know if you knew, but she was my best friend when we were growing up. It's been really good to see her again. And now she's training to be a nurse. She started getting some training in Thirteen. After the Capitol bombing…' his face clouds, his voice dropping, '…they were short on medics, and she volunteered to train. Now there's a doctor in Twelve again Delly's been spending time helping at the hospice.'  
'Good for her. I hear the hospice can use every pair of hands it can get.' This change of conversation has given him time to regain self-control and he's able to meet Peeta's eyes without looking away.  
'Well, I won't keep you any longer.' Peeta picks up the second loaf. 'I'll see myself out. Take care, Haymitch.'  
He watches Peeta walk across the grass, letting himself into Katniss's house.

...

The next day Haymitch comes home from helping in 12 to find his door ajar, when he knows he shut it. He steps across the threshold, peering down the empty hallway, a hand on his knife.  
'Who's there?'  
There's the sound of bottles falling over in the sitting room and a moment later a figure appears in the doorway.  
Haymitch blinks. 'Plutarch. What brings you here to darken my doorway? …Or the hall, I should say.'  
'Ah yes, I apologise but the door was unlocked and I didn't feel comfortable waiting outside.'  
Haymitch folds his arms. 'What do you want?'  
'Your help, to be blunt. Since my phone calls aren't having any effect I thought I'd try in person.'  
'I thought I made it clear I won't take the job.'  
Plutarch shakes his head. He looks exhausted. Haymitch almost feels sorry for him. 'You don't understand. We need you. Immediately. Things are falling apart. No doubt you've seen it on the news.'  
Haymitch nods slowly. 'Seems too many of our new ministers used to be pals with our good friend Snow.'  
'That's right. Every time we find anyone suitable for a job with any sort of far-reaching responsibility, they either turn out to have had a hand in Snow's pocket, or they don't have enough experience. Snow didn't like to give responsibility to anyone who wasn't under his thumb... We need you, Haymitch.' Plutarch takes a few steps forward, his voice persuasive, like he's speaking in one of his TV-spots. 'We need to build trust in our new government – to show we're capable and free of corruption.'  
Haymitch's eyes narrow. All this talk about trust: what Plutarch really means is he needs someone he can trust. Perhaps his close association with Coin during the rebellion is making it difficult to advance in this new government. But it's better to keep this insight to himself.  
'Come to Five,' Plutarch insists.  
'I can't.' But the words don't seem to have the force they should.  
'I know. Katniss needs you. But Peeta's here now. They have each other.'  
Haymitch grinds his teeth.  
'Five isn't far. Only a day's train journey from Twelve. If anything happens you can get back here in under ten hours – there'll be a hovercraft at your disposal.'  
'A hovercraft. You must really want me.'  
'I mean it, Haymitch. You name it, you'll get it. But hurry.' Plutarch leans forward, his face tight. 'This place won't hold together much longer.'  
'I'll think about it. That's all I can promise.'  
Plutarch nods, holding his gaze. 'All right. Just think quickly.' He moves past Haymitch and jogs down the front steps without looking back. Haymitch shuts the door on his retreating figure, more forcefully than necessary. He needs a drink. 

...

_Katniss_  
I feel restless – a feeling I've grown more and more used to this past week. There's still an hour to go before Sae's due to arrive, so I tell Peeta to stay in the kitchen while I go for a walk. Buttercup mews at me as I pull on my jacket and head out the back door.  
As I start for the woods, I resist the urge to turn and glance back at Haymitch's house, to see if there's any sign of him – he made it clear he doesn't want to see me any time soon.  
I haven't spoken to him since he told me he was too worn out to come over in the evenings, but I've seen him a few times in town, always at a distance. He looks drawn, exhausted. If he sees me he nods briefly, then turns away and carries on with whatever he's doing. A week ago he would have come over to greet me, or waved me over to him. This distant behaviour hurts, and I wonder what I've done wrong.  
When I met him in the square on my way to see Delly, he'd been happy. With a frown I realise that was the first time I'd seen him smiling properly in weeks. Then, as always when I think of that meeting, I remember how he'd rubbed the mark off my neck – and my face goes hot for no reason.  
Since that afternoon something's changed. I want to know what happened – but at the same time I'm afraid to ask – in case I push him even further away.  
What if he's finally had enough? What if he's tired of looking after me, tired of the role I forced him into because he was afraid to leave me alone?  
He has every right to feel that way. It hurts to admit it, but I've taken up far too much of his time over the last few months. I want to make it up to him – to show him I'm grateful, like I should have done before. But perhaps the best way to do that is to leave him alone, to give him his life back. And maybe one day he'll be ready to resume our friendship.  
When I try to picture the weeks ahead – possibly months – without his companionship, I feel numb, lost. I'm starting to realise just how much I've come to rely on his visits, how much I've missed them.  
I'm just coming out of the woods when the throbbing hum of an engine reaches my ears. It's coming from the green behind Victor's Village. Even from this distance I can see the hovercraft standing there, engine idling. As I watch, a figure comes into view at the edge of the field, making for the aircraft.  
My blood freezes. It's Plutarch.

…

_Haymitch_  
Telling Plutarch he'd think about it was the coward's way – just putting off the inevitable. But he has to work out how to tell Katniss he's leaving – and he has no idea how she'll take the news.  
With each sip of white liquor he feels his frustration building. He wishes he'd left weeks ago. This is all dragging out much too long.  
He's onto his second bottle when the front door opens and there are rapid footsteps in the hall. His head snaps up, ready to tell Plutarch to go to hell – but it's Katniss staring back at him, tense and anxious.  
His anger drains away, replaced by a feeling of readiness, almost relief. So this is it. At last he knows what he has to do.  
'Let me guess,' he drawls, bottle dangling between his fingers. 'You met Plutarch.'  
She gives a small start. Clearly she was expecting to have to force him to confess Plutarch's visit. Having him admit it so nonchalantly puts her on the back foot. Typically, this moment of vulnerability only lasts an instant before her chin lowers, her eyes hardening in suspicion.  
He watches her with a small, mirthless smile. 'That one wasn't so hard. I'll try again.' He can feel himself warming up to this; his chance to push her just far enough that she'll want him to leave.  
He shifts in his chair, tapping a finger with each new guess, letting his words slur, as if he's drunker than he actually is. 'Let's see; he told you about the job. And all the times I turned him down. And then he sent you here to persuade me to take him up, for the good of our republic.'  
She gapes at him. 'What are you talking about?'  
'Oh. So he didn't tell you.' He smiles humourlessly. 'There's a job in Five he thinks I'm just perfect for. For weeks he's been giving me calls like clockwork. And today he turned up in person to beg me to take it.'  
'What job? In Five?' Her eyes widen. 'But – you can't. You told me you'd stay here. In Twelve.' Her voice catches. 'You promised.'  
He just looks at her, taking a swig from his bottle.  
Her jaw jumps, like she wants to snatch the bottle and hurl it against the wall.  
She closes her eyes for a moment, struggling to stay calm. Her gaze darts to the chair opposite him. 'I don't understand.' Every line of her body is taut and jumpy, like she's back in the arena. 'What happened?'  
He knows this question is meant more for herself than for him, but he talks anyway. Better not to give her a chance to defuse.  
'The same as always. Our glorious republic is ripping at the seams. We're on the brink of a nationwide power shortage. So they're calling in every favour they can think of.' He laughs bitterly.  
Her eyes are unfocused; he's not sure she even heard him. 'You said – you've known about this job for weeks. But you didn't tell me.' The accusing note in her voice intensifies until she's almost shouting. 'Why didn't you say something?'  
'I didn't think it was any of your business.'  
He thinks she's going to hit him. Then she seems to recoil, and he sees his words have gone deeper than he intended. It's like she's confirming something at last, something she's dreaded. 'You want to leave… That's it, isn't it? Maybe ever since Plutarch first offered you the job.' She falters. Her face works. 'What did I do?'  
For a second he can't speak; this isn't the way he wanted things to go at all.  
'Not everything's about you, sweetheart.'  
She gapes at him, eyes flashing. 'And what's that supposed to mean?'  
'Plutarch needs help. End of story.'  
Her face twists, incensed by his evasion. She stays where she is, but it feels like she's advancing, baiting him. 'It's all right. You can tell me.' She waits, but he doesn't say anything, just like she expects. 'You've been wanting to leave for weeks – but you couldn't. Because of me.'  
He feels his heart sink. But not a muscle in his face moves as he waits for her next words.  
'You were waiting, all along.' She almost spits the words, voice shuddering. 'For Peeta to get here – for him to settle in – so there'd be someone to look after me – so you don't have to.' Her voice almost fails her. 'Because that's all I am to you, isn't it? A burden – that you couldn't wait to pass off to Peeta.'  
He's silent.  
'Did you ever even want to be here?' He's startled by the raw hurt in her face, the anger. 'When you came here with me from the Capitol – was it under Paylor's orders?'  
The question takes him aback for a moment. He forces himself to hold her eyes. 'It was part of the terms of your release, that you had someone here keeping an eye on you.'  
She's motionless. Then she blinks quickly, swallowing.  
With a sickening jolt he realises that he's gone too far. 'Katniss…'  
'Go to hell.' The words are muffled, almost choking. Her eyes are fixed on the floor, like she can't stand to look at him. He can see her shaking – and yet she stays frozen in place.  
He wants to go to her – to hold her – but he stays in his chair, unable to take his eyes off her face.  
A small shudder goes through her and she looks at him at last. There are tears in her eyes, but each word is steady.  
'Tell Paylor, you did your job here. You've ticked it off; you fixed me just enough so I won't break. Now fuck off to Five for the next one.'  
He doesn't move as she turns and walks out without looking back. Seconds later the front door bangs shut and she's gone. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter starts four months after Haymitch leaves 12.

**Chapter Twelve**

_Katniss_  
'I have something to tell you.'  
I take this in, swallowing. 'What is it?' I'm on the phone with Dr Aurelius for my fortnightly check-up. These last couple of months he's shown every sign of being confident in my recovery, so we reduced our sessions from once a week to once a fortnight. Still, since when did the phrase 'I have something to tell you' coming from your therapist ever mean anything good?  
'Plutarch Heavensbee has shown a great deal of interest in your progress. He's been asking me how you are, and a couple of weeks ago I felt it was time to tell him you're ready to leave Twelve, if you want to.'  
This wasn't what I was expecting to hear at all and it takes a moment to sink in. 'They'd let me?'  
His reply is tentative. 'I was under the impression that Plutarch has various promotional activities in mind for you.'  
'Figures.'  
He laughs. 'You can always say no, I'm sure. But I really do feel it's time to end your forced confinement. You should be able to visit your mother, your friends in other districts.' He falls silent.  
I feel certain the process of ending my exile won't be as simple as he's making it out to be. But I decide to question him another time, when I feel more prepared.  
I can sense Aurelius hesitating on the other end of the line.  
'Perhaps you could go visit Haymitch too,' he says gently.  
I stiffen. 'He's too busy to see me,' I manage at last. I can't stop the new sourness to my tone. 'Plutarch keeps him on a tight lease.'  
'I'm sure he'd make time to see you,' Aurelius says carefully. I haven't told him about my fight with Haymitch; I haven't spoken about Haymitch voluntarily since he left 12, but Aurelius senses something happened. For the most part he's kept silent, but every few sessions he gently raises the subject again, hoping I'll be ready to talk. Today is one of those days.  
'Perhaps you could write him a letter,' suggests Aurelius.  
'And say what?' I snap, before I can stop myself.  
'Well,' he says carefully, 'is there anything you'd like to ask him?'  
'There's nothing to say.' I start pacing, my steps confined by the length of the telephone cord. 'He made that perfectly clear the last time I saw him.'  
Aurelius pauses; this is news to him. 'What do you mean by that?'  
I let out an uneven breath. 'He came to Twelve under court orders.' The words taste like dust in my mouth. 'Now he's free of me. I won't bother him again.'  
There's a long pause. 'Where did you hear that? – that he was ordered to accompany you?'  
'He said so himself.'  
Aurelius absorbs this. 'He wasn't being truthful. I was there at the trial. Haymitch volunteered to go to Twelve with you.'  
I can't speak at once. 'What?'  
'The court was undecided about whether to keep you confined to the Capitol or not. It was Haymitch who suggested he accompany you to Twelve, so you could be in familiar surroundings, where you'd be more likely to heal.' He waits. 'Katniss?'  
My throat feels tight. 'I'm sorry, but I have to go. I promised Peeta I'd help with a delivery.'  
Pretending to believe me, he wishes me a pleasant day and says goodbye.  
I put the phone down and slump into the rocking chair. My eye is drawn to the empty space on the mantelpiece. I put Haymitch's carving away a couple of days after he left, because having it in sight made me want to break something. But that doesn't stop my gaze from going to the spot with frustrating frequency.  
Is it true what Dr Aurelius said? That Haymitch volunteered to come to 12? When I think of him saying he was ordered to accompany me I feel shaken and nauseous, even four months later. Why would he have lied about something so painful?  
I haven't heard anything from him since he went away: not a single word. For the first few weeks after he left I still couldn't accept what he'd said. Not when it would mean that everything he did for me since we came to 12 was primarily out of duty – that the friendship that meant so much to me was little more than obligation. But if we were truly friends, how could he say the things he did – when he must have known how much it would hurt me, whether he was speaking the truth or not? As the weeks passed with no word from him I decided to stop tormenting myself, doing my best not to think about him at all. Peeta's long since given up asking me what happened, wary of the way my mood sours into sullen silence whenever Haymitch is mentioned. Without ever explicitly bringing it up, I've managed to enforce a taboo around Haymitch's name, so I never have to speak about him or hear about him.  
Mostly this has worked quite well. But there are some mentions of him that I can't control. Every so often, passing through the communication hub to give Thom a message, I'll glance at the television screens and see Haymitch.  
As one of the few surviving Victors, no longer hidden away in 12 but in the public eye in his new government job, he's become a favourite with reporters whenever they want a comment on national developments. Again and again, they question him about his part in getting the hydroelectric dams running again – in the nick of time.  
Whenever I see him a hard knot forms in my throat – but somehow I can't bring myself to look away.  
Mostly he stands in the background while Plutarch heaps praise on him. He keeps his head slightly bowed, hiding his eyes. It's hard to tell when I'm looking at him on-screen, but I think he looks tired. No doubt Plutarch's a hard taskmaster.  
If his interviewers try to ask him about how he's finding life in 5, and how things have changed for him since the founding of the Republic, he only gives the briefest, most inconsequential of answers, his easy smile never faltering. He's always been good in front of the camera. Not like me.  
I stand abruptly and pull on my jacket, suddenly yearning for the space of the woods. The cold air stings my face as I march away from Victors' Village.  
It doesn't matter if Haymitch volunteered to come to 12 with me. Because I still became a burden to him either way. He wanted to leave – to get his own life back. Why else would he have acted the way he did?  
Alone in the woods, it's easier to push aside these thoughts. I focus on the smell of the wet leaves carpeting the ground. The trees are vibrant with colour and leaves are tumbling everywhere I look, endless; fall has come early.  
Dr Aurelius said I might soon be able to visit the other districts. I could see my mother. We call each other every week, but seeing her in person would mean so much more.  
I've been keeping myself busy hunting and helping with the rebuilding, doing my best to throw myself into the work, to join in with the easy camaraderie between Peeta and Delly as we work together. But even in the midst of their laughter, I feel removed from it all, like I'm being left behind by something indefinable.  
At night my dreams are broken and disrupted. Every few nights I wake up in a cold sweat, heart hammering. Dr Aurelius assures me this is normal, that I'm making good progress – but I can't help my frustration. I'd hoped to be so much better by now.  
I come to a halt, my heart jolting against my ribs. I close my eyes, but when I open them, the view is still the same. I'm standing by Haymitch's lake. I haven't been back here since he went away; I've avoided this area of the woods altogether. Somehow my feet took me to this place without me realising it.  
There's no wind, not even a breeze. I stare across the water, trying to make my mind as blank and undisturbed as the surface of the lake. For several minutes I don't move. A flock of geese flies overhead, heading south for warmer skies. I stay till they're out of sight.

…

A week goes by. I come home after dropping off my prey in town to find Peeta waiting for me outside my door. Subdued, he hands a letter to me. 'There's something you should know. But I thought it would be best if you read it in a letter. That way you'll have time to take it in. Come and find me when you're ready.'  
With a small smile he turns and walks away, leaving me to head inside and read the letter.  
 _Katniss,_  
 _I think you know that while I was growing up, I only really had one friend, and that was Delly. She was the one person I could talk to, really talk to, and she understood me better than anyone else. When I was in Thirteen she helped me sort out my memories. I guess you remember that._  
Then, a few lines later:  
 _Since she came back here Delly and I have been spending lots of time together, in the bakery, and helping in town – and, somehow, we fell in love. I can't explain how it happened. But it did. I can't imagine being without her._  
He says they haven't spoken about this new development to anyone – and wanted me to be the first to know. They're not going to tell anyone else about it for a couple of months – but couldn't wait any longer to speak to me.  
 _We – both of us – want to know you're ok with it. The last thing we want is to hurt you._  
When I reach the end, I don't feel surprise so much as numbness. As the minutes creep by, I find myself remembering little signs I hadn't paid attention to, and slowly I realise I should have guessed Peeta's news without needing to be told in a letter. Over the last few weeks he's improved steadily, his flashbacks increasingly rare. Delly must be the main reason for this. When they're together it's easy to see their affection for each other. I just didn't realise it was more than friendship.  
In the hours after reading the letter, I trudge familiar paths through the woods, slowly coming to terms with Peeta's news. Months ago we both agreed that we would go back to being purely platonic – and at the time I was relieved. But some secret part of me had thought Peeta might fall in love with me – and although I'm not sure I could ever feel that way about anyone, I would have wanted to make him happy.  
Now this will never happen. From now on Delly will be first in Peeta's affections, and I'll be left a fraction more alone, my destiny of solitude reconfirmed.  
I think of Delly, her warm and caring nature, the new maturity to her since the war. She's the reason for Peeta's new cheerfulness and contentment. He deserves a future with love and warmth, children even – and I know Delly is infinitely more able to give all this to him than I ever could be.  
 _You could live a thousand lifetimes and never deserve that boy._  
My heart starts and I have to force myself not to look around, knowing the voice is only in my mind.  
By the time I get home again, several hours later, the sun is setting. I walk across to Peeta's and knock on the door. When he answers he looks surprised to see me. And nervous, as though he doesn't know what to expect.  
Then he sees my smile and his face lights up with relief. We hug each other at the same time and I feel a jolt of happiness and gratitude. Peeta and I might never be a couple again – but he'll always be my friend, and that's all I need.

…

_Haymitch_  
'Did you hear Plutarch's going to be holding a sporting contest next year?'  
Haymitch wrenches his attention back to Effie with an effort. They're sitting together in the living room of his apartment. She's in 5 for a short stay to help arrange media coverage of the unveiling of a monument to the lives lost in the rebellion. Tomorrow morning she'll catch a train back to the Capitol.  
These days she's not the only one with a packed schedule and he feels a pang of guilt for letting his attention wander when this is the only time they've been able to spend together while she's in 5. Even though he's been here for months, he still has trouble keeping his thoughts from taking him back to 12.  
Effie prattles on, oblivious. 'There'll be all sorts of categories. Running, jumping, swimming, riding. The idea is to replace the Hunger Games with something that brings the districts together – without anyone being hurt.'  
Haymitch hides a smirk at this gross understatement.  
'I heard archery will be a category too. If only Katniss could compete. She'd win for sure.' She pauses. 'Haymitch?'  
Haymitch shakes his head, trying to ignore the sudden weight on his lungs. 'No doubt about that,' he says slowly, forcing himself to smile. 'It might not be the best way for her to come back into the public eye, after Coin.'  
'Maybe you're right.' Effie tilts her head wistfully.  
To his relief she doesn't mention Katniss again. They talk for a while before she gets up to leave, elegantly shrugging into her coat and picking up her purse.  
He follows her to the door. She's about to open it when she stops and turns to him. Her eyes hold his as she lifts her hand and places it on his forearm. Her hand feels cool through the fabric of his shirt.  
He blinks; her hand still lingers on his arm, and her smile is suddenly shy.  
'Want to go for a drink?' she asks.  
He breathes out slowly. 'I'm sorry, but I don't think that's a good idea.'  
'I think it might be fun.' Her smile is sweet – with a hint of mischief. 'You know, I've liked you for a while. If you say yes, maybe you might grow to like me too.'  
The words come as a surprise. But perhaps he should have realised sooner. Perhaps he would have, if he hadn't been so preoccupied.  
She looks back at him, her eyes big and blue. Without her wig, and with minimal make up, she's beautiful. Maybe he should take her up on her offer. There's nothing to stop him, and he likes Effie.  
He sighs, his head on one side. 'I'm sorry. But I can't. You're a beautiful woman. Sharp – and kind. You'll find someone. Someone better.'  
Her hand drops from his arm. She swallows, looking away. Then she shakes her head, summoning a smile. 'I hope this won't spoil our friendship.'  
He manages a laugh. 'Of course not.' He means it; he doesn't want to lose her as a friend. 'Take care, Effie.'  
The corners of her lips lift in a small smile and she walks away, her steps quick. He shuts the door and leans his head against it, closing his eyes.  
He rubs his hands over his face as a wave of exhaustion crashes over him. Since coming to 5 his days have been filled with activity – travelling around the district to inspect infrastructure and speak to the people in charge of repairs, lobbying the Capitol for more funds – and attending seemingly endless social functions at Plutarch's insistence. Despite the relentless stream of tasks, he's dogged by insomnia, rarely sleeping for more than a few hours a night.  
Far too often his thoughts go back to 12 – to Katniss. At night, or in the middle of the day, her face swims into his mind and he experiences all over again the agony of watching her slowly dawning comprehension – her despair, quickly succeeded by betrayal and loathing. He's never despised himself as much as he did at that moment.  
In the hours after she marched out of his house, he'd been torn between the desire to run after her and tell her he didn't mean those things – and the unyielding knowledge that doing so would mean he'd have to explain why he'd said them in the first place. Inevitably, he'd chosen to stay silent.  
He hasn't heard a word from her since that last evening in 12. As much as it pains him to know she despises him, he's still sure this is the way it has to be. He'd had to make his departure painful to her, so she wouldn't keep wondering why he left, but would put him out of her mind for good.  
But he'd never expected their argument to go so far – never suspected just how far he'd have to push her to get her to want him to leave.  
She depended on him too much, he sees that now. With him gone she'll be able to turn to Peeta properly, without him in the background. And if she was upset about him leaving, Peeta will be there to comfort her; all the better.  
Now, four months after leaving, he's finally beginning to accept the way things are. He'll always regret the way he'd left things with Katniss, but it had been the only option left to him.  
With this thought, he pushes away from the door and wanders towards the fire, eyeing the envelope that's propped on the mantelpiece. It's from Peeta. When he'd first left 12, the sight of Peeta's neat handwriting never failed to evoke a mix of feelings. Part resentment, part resignation – and part curiosity. He'd resented that the only way he could hear about Katniss is through Peeta – Aurelius's oath of professional confidentiality keeps him from sharing anything beyond the sparsest details – but at the same time he'd felt a grudging gratitude to the boy for keeping him informed.  
Now his mind is quiet as he rips open the envelope and pulls out the letter. In it Peeta tells him about a book he and Katniss have started working on to remember all the people they've lost.  
 _We wish you were here; you should write something too. Maybe one day you'll be back in Twelve and I'll paint the pictures to go with your words._  
There's a paragraph about Delly's ongoing training as a nurse, and then a couple of lines about Katniss and how Aurelius says soon she'll be ready to leave 12 if she wants to.  
Reaching the end, Haymitch puts down the letter. He can't quite keep the edge from his smile as he reflects that if Katniss does start visiting other districts, 5 won't be one of them. But it'll be some time before she's able to leave 12. The courts still need to revoke the order confining her there. Since coming to 5 he's been in contact with several officials, patiently persuading them it's high time to pardon her, but it's taking longer than he'd like.  
His eyes go back to the letter, as though his gaze will draw out the things Peeta didn't say.

…

_Katniss_  
For the next two months Delly and Peeta keep their new relationship a complete secret. Even when it's just the three of us together they're undemonstrative, not even holding hands. But I can sense a new closeness between them, how content they are just in each other's company. Sometimes it hurts to watch because I'm reminded how I'll always be alone.  
Whenever I think about how careful they're being, I feel guilty. If I was braver, a better person, I'd tell them to let the gossip come. But when I think about the inevitable talk show discussions about my future prospects, the reporters hanging around the station hoping for a glimpse of me, my courage wilts and I put off the conversation for another day.  
November has just arrived when we get an invitation from Annie to visit her and her son, named Finn for his father. I can't go: I'm still forbidden to leave 12, and secretly I'm glad. I'm used to my life here; it's the one place I feel safe. The thought of going beyond the confines of 12 spreads slow panic through my veins. Here, for the most part, people accept me, but I can't expect that kind of tolerance outside the place I grew up in.  
Peeta and Delly are set to politely decline the invitation, not wanting to go if I can't, but I tell them to go without me. I know they became friends with Annie in 13 – and it'll be good for them to leave District 12 for a while, just the two of them.  
I've just got back home from seeing them off at the station when the phone rings: it's Dr Aurelius. As he greets me I can hear the excitement in his voice and it doesn't take long to find out the cause.  
'They want to pardon you.'  
My breath sticks in my throat. 'What?'  
Aurelius is smiling; I can hear it in his voice. 'They're going to pardon you publicly, Katniss. You won't have to stay in Twelve any more, if you don't want to. You'll be absolved. Free.'  
Free. The word doesn't mean much to me. 'What do they want me to do?'  
He pauses, disappointed by my reaction. Then he answers smoothly. 'You need to go to the Capitol, where your trial will be held.'  
'A trial?' I can't stop the panicked note in my voice.  
'It's purely procedure. The verdict is guaranteed. Plutarch assured me of that. But they have to follow the process correctly. Especially in this case.'  
He has a point. The government can't risk looking like it condones assassination.  
'When will it happen?'  
'In two weeks' time. You'll need to arrive a day or two early to meet with your lawyer and have them prepare you for the trial. It's likely there'll be a reception afterwards.'  
My heart is beating too fast. A reception. That means cameras, spectators. Interviews. I thought I'd never have to do any of that again.  
'Katniss. It'll be ok. You'll be back in Twelve before you know it.'  
I swallow, forcing down my rising panic. 'Thanks, Aurelius. But I need to go now.'  
He understands. 'All right. Call me if you want to talk. Goodbye, Katniss.'  
I put down the phone, wishing Peeta was here so I could talk to him about it all. But he won't be back for another week, and I refuse to ruin his stay by summoning him back to my side. To keep my mind off the trial, I throw myself into helping Thom organise supplies for the new school, along with materials for the numerous other building projects still going on in town.  
The evening before Peeta and Delly are due to return I stumble into the kitchen, exhausted – to hear the shrill ring of the phone. My stomach clenches; the last thing I feel like doing is talking about the trial.  
But it's not Aurelius. It's Delly. There's a sob in her voice. 'Katniss. I'm so sorry.'  
My insides freeze. Before I can speak I hear Peeta: 'Here, let me talk to her,' and a moment later his voice is close to the receiver. 'Katniss, there's something you should know. This afternoon, I went to buy Delly a ring. When I came out of the store a reporter appeared and asked me if the ring was for you. I left as quickly as possible without answering. But since then we've had to switch hotels because reporters kept sneaking past the lobby and knocking at our doors.' He pauses. 'We were just about to tell you – about the engagement. I'm sorry. We were planning to tell you as soon as we got home. We weren't going to mention it to anyone else, at least for a couple of months. And now –'  
'It's ok,' I manage. 'They were bound to find out, sooner or later.' Though I was hoping it would be later, much much later. I congratulate him and Delly on their engagement, and we talk for a few minutes before hanging up. That night I hardly sleep, imaginary headlines flashing through my mind. I'm certain the gossip is going to get out of control – and the very next morning I'm proved right.  
Safe in 12, I've largely been kept ignorant of the public's opinions and beliefs about me – for which I'm grateful. And I've had too much on my mind to worry about what those outside 12 think of me. Largely in response to the documentary aired about me half a year ago, it turns out opinion is split on whether my marriage to Peeta was fake – along with my pregnancy. But since Peeta and I are never seen outside 12, the speculation has been muted and it seemed the country lost interest.  
Now all that's changed. With impressive efficiency, talk show hosts have uncovered Delly's identity and her past friendship with Peeta. Opinion is divided on whether I'm a betrayed wife or merely a spurned lover. Regardless, it seems most presenters have a shared enjoyment for speculating about how I took the news of Peeta's newfound love: 'I'm guessing he locked up all the weapons in a ten mile radius before he told her,' one talk show host chuckles, to a burst of appreciative laughter.  
With the Hunger Games long gone, and the new government largely disapproving of any news bulletin which isn't concerned with quotas and five-year-plans, opportunities to gossip on air have been limited. This new scandal seems to give the Capitol's plentiful television hosts a new lease on life, as they debate what my future will be like now that Peeta has abandoned me for someone else. Most come to the conclusion that I'll either die an old spinster or run off into the woods.  
The day after Peeta gets back, he has a brief, private interview with a small team of reporters – handpicked by Plutarch – while I sit at his side. Peeta tells them that, to our regret, it didn't work out between him and me – and I confirm it. It's our hope that by getting things cleared up as quickly as possible, the gossip will run its course and we'll all be left in peace, both here in 12 and during my summons to the Capitol.  
The interview airs later that evening. But rather than putting the gossip to rest, it seems to fan the flames even higher. Feeling personally betrayed by the collapse of the star-crossed lovers, a horde of Capitol citizens volubly state that our marriage never existed at all – and nor did my pregnancy. This claim quickly gains purchase, especially when neither Peeta nor I deny it. They're furious that we led them along, deceiving them so spectacularly – even if it was for the purpose of surviving their Games.  
At painful moments I find myself wondering that Haymitch thinks of all this. When I think of him catching snippets of the talk shows, seeing the inevitable pictures of me, specially chosen to make me look alone and abandoned, my face starts flaming. I can't stand the thought of him knowing Peeta has chosen Delly, because I don't want to give him another reason to pity me.  
As the media attention only continues to intensify, my dread of going to the Capitol deepens.  
Peeta insists he'll come with me, to prove we're a united front, even if we'll never be a couple again – but I know that won't be possible. He's not well enough. The day after the new surge of press attention – just four days before my departure – he has an attack and has to take a day off to recover. Afterwards he's still shaky, and even he has to admit he can't come with me.  
Which means I'll be alone. While Peeta's so ill, he'll need Delly with him. Thom's buried up to his neck in rebuilding. I could call my mother – but I know she's busy, too – and no more ready than Peeta is to go back to the Capitol. That leaves no one.  
But that's not true. There is someone else.  
After what happened, I promised myself I'd never ask Haymitch for help again, so I do nothing. I've made up my mind to face it all alone, when a new headline appears, just two days before I'm due to leave: KATNISS EVERDEEN TO BE PARDONED: A DANGEROUS PRECEDENT?  
That night I lie awake for hours, paralysed by indecision. Until today I'd been sure my trial was secret from the public, hopeful that as long as I kept my head low I might be able to sneak in and out of the Capitol without too much attention. But now this is impossible.  
I need someone to keep them out of my way, someone with experience of Capitol procedures and appeasing the press. And – much as I hate to admit it – there's no one I know who's better suited to that role than Haymitch.  
At last, in the early hours of the morning, I make up my mind to contact him. My trip won't take more than two days. In three days' time, I'll be back in 12, he'll be in 5, and we'll never have to see each other again. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

_Haymitch_  
He's too restless to stand still so he paces back and forth along the platform. Her train pulls in twenty minutes late. As the passengers pour through the doors he stands back, feet planted firmly, searching for a sign of her. All around him people are calling out greetings and embracing each other.  
Gigantic television screens are fixed to the bridges that span the platforms. To his relief, they're showing news bulletins about war memorials, nothing about Katniss and Peeta.  
When he'd first heard the news about Delly and Peeta, he'd been incredulous; sure it must be some kind of joke. But then Peeta and Katniss had both publicly confirmed the development, and he'd realised it was true. In the days afterwards he'd been unable to keep his mood from swinging between frustration and resignation. At the most inconsequential of moments he'd feel a sudden burst of impatience at the irony of the whole situation, and he'd find himself wondering what might have happened if he'd just stuck it out in 12 for a few more months – or if he'd ever brought up his feelings with Katniss, or even with Peeta, who might have reassured him that he saw Katniss as nothing more than a friend.  
But those choices are long past; and he knows there was never even the slightest chance he would have taken them; he'd been too sure of his own interpretation of the bond between Katniss and Peeta.  
But it doesn't matter. Just like it didn't matter when he'd once wondered what would have happened if Peeta had never returned to 12. What's done is done. And even if he thought there was a chance Katniss might want to hear from him, he has no idea how to repair their friendship after what he'd said to her.  
Yesterday morning, he'd barely crossed the threshold of his office when his secretary had appeared with a missive for him marked 'Urgent'. It was from Katniss; in seconds he'd ripped it open.  
 _I've been summoned to the Capitol for my pardon. Peeta can't come; he's been having flashbacks again. There's no one else. I need someone with me to keep off the press. It won't take more than two days. Then you'll never have to see me again._  
 _I'll be arriving at the main station Thursday, 2 p.m._  
Then – on a separate line – a last resort.  
 _Please come._  
He read it through several times, trying to decipher the silence between the lines, but only growing more and more perplexed. At last he decided it didn't matter – he's going.  
Telling his secretary to reschedule everything for the following week, he'd immediately put a call through to one of his contacts in the Capitol, arranging security personnel for Katniss's hotel and making sure there are back exits in all the venues they're likely to visit. Most of the arrangements were made a couple of weeks ago, as soon as he'd heard about Katniss's trial through the government grapevine.  
That afternoon he'd caught a train to the Capitol, arriving in the late evening. He'd managed to reserve himself a room next to Katniss's in the hotel Plutarch's booked for her. Perhaps she'll resent him being so close by – but he reasons it's better to stay close in case any reporters sneak past the lobby and hound her. Even during Snow's presidency this level of harrying from the press was rare. He thinks of Katniss's distaste for the spotlight and promises himself he'll see her through this. He wishes he could have done a better job to protect her already, kept her name off the talk shows. But by the time he found out about the headlines it was too late – and it's a free press.  
Just as he'd been about to leave his office, the phone had rung. He'd been tempted to walk out without answering, suspecting it might be Effie wanting to vent her astonishment about Delly and Peeta for the umpteenth time – but in the end he'd picked up.  
A familiar voice greeted his ears: Plutarch. 'I hear you'll be in the Capitol this evening.'  
'Sure my office isn't bugged?'  
Plutarch laughed good-humouredly. 'I have my sources. You'll be helping Katniss with her trial, I presume?'  
Haymitch hesitated. Was he imagining it, or was there a knowing tone to Plutarch's voice? 'That's right.'  
'I hope people haven't been giving you too much trouble. It's rare for the press to be so stirred up about something.'  
'I've managed to avoid them, for the most part. When I can't, my answer never changes.'  
Plutarch chuckled, but then his tone sobered into one of warning. 'I doubt "no comment" will suffice in the Capitol. There'll be a press conference, as you know, and they're certain to ask her about Peeta.'  
Haymitch stayed silent.  
'How is she taking it all?' Plutarch asked after a pause.  
'I wouldn't know. We haven't been in touch.'  
'Really! But I was under the impression you saw a lot of each other in Twelve. I would've thought… Well, no matter. I won't keep you any longer. Safe travels.' Plutarch hung up.

…

The crowd of passengers has dwindled to a trickle when at last Katniss comes into view, edging her way down the platform, a suitcase in her hand. She must have waited for most of the passengers to clear before stepping off the train, anxious to avoid attention.  
She hasn't seen him yet and he takes the opportunity to study her from a distance. She's wearing a long coat and her hair curtains her face. He can just make out her tight expression, see her eyes moving from person to person.  
He feels a fierce pain in his chest as he struggles to push down the feelings that the sight of her stirs up. How can he have missed her so much?  
Her eyes find his and something changes in her expression. A second later she lowers her gaze. She doesn't smile as she makes her way towards him. He takes a few steps forward and she comes to a halt.  
Silence stretches out uncomfortably. He has no idea what to say to her, so in the end all he offers is a nod and an indistinct shrug.  
'Ready to go?' he asks quietly.  
Her eyelids lift and she's looking right at him. He feels his neck heat up. Quickly he averts his gaze. When he dares to look at her again, she's guarded, shuttered.  
'Where to?' she responds at last.  
'The attorney's office, then the hotel. That all right?'  
She just nods, her face giving nothing away.  
He looks at her suitcase and wonders if he should offer to carry it. But she's clutching it tightly, like a lifeline, and he decides not to.  
He turns and leads the way to the street, feeling her stare burning into his back.

…

_Katniss_  
He doesn't lead me to the main entrance, but instead takes me to a side exit. As he holds the door open for me, he mutters something about avoiding the press and my stomach drops. But the narrow street we step into is empty of people. A car is waiting just beyond the door, a black-clad driver leaning against the bonnet. He takes my suitcase and stows it in the trunk. I climb into the front passenger seat, leaving Haymitch to sit in the back.  
The car emerges onto the main street and I see at once why Haymitch picked the back exit. A crowd of reporters surrounds the station's entrance. Angry commuters shove their way past cameras and microphones. Someone spots me through the windshield and suddenly a wall of cameras is rushing at us, bulbs flashing. Through the glass I hear my name. The car speeds up and a few long seconds later we've left them all far behind.  
'The attorney's place should be clear,' Haymitch says behind me. 'Plutarch guaranteed it.'  
I press my lips together, mastering the temptation to make a remark about how he and Plutarch seem to have become regular cronies.  
As we drive past grand, whitewashed buildings, unwelcome memories start to intrude. I remember arriving in the Capitol for the first time, powerless and frightened, a piece in their Games. And then returning a year and a half later, on a personal mission to assassinate the president. I'd thought I was taking control, but I'd been Coin's pawn just as much as I had previously been Snow's. And now, on my return, I can't face venturing anywhere alone because of the reporters clamouring my name.  
The driver keeps a steady silence to my left. He hasn't glanced at me once since I climbed into the car. He must have been hired by Plutarch for his discretion. I'm grateful.  
I'm careful not to look behind me, but I'm intensely aware of Haymitch's presence in the back of the car. Our meeting at the station was distant and strained. I hadn't expected anything else, but it hurts. When I caught sight of him on the platform it took all my willpower not to stop in my tracks, because nothing could have prepared me for the wave of longing that hit me in that moment. As he'd spoken to me I'd looked at him swiftly, studying his features, taking in the tired lines etched into his forehead, trying to work out why he'd come to meet me after everything.  
In a past life he would have touched my shoulder, my hair, embraced me, but this time he hadn't touched me at all, and he'd barely met my eyes.  
Immediately I feel a start of impatience. Our friendship is over. What matters is that he's here, one final time, to see me through this. Already, he's proven his worth, keeping me from running straight into the mob of waiting reporters.  
He didn't have any luggage with him at the station. How long has he been here in the Capitol, waiting for me to arrive?  
I glance out the window – and feel my heart plunge. There's a gap in the buildings – and for a sickening second I think I recognise the sprawling roofs of the Presidential Palace, the site of the bomb that took my sister's life. But it can't be. We're on the wrong side of the city, miles away from the palace.  
I close my eyes and focus on taking deep, steadying breaths like Aurelius always tells me to do if I find myself panicking.  
My coat crackles as I pull it more closely around me – there's a piece of paper in the inside pocket. Haymitch's note. It's been there for the whole journey from 12 to the Capitol. It's stupid to keep it, but it felt like insurance that he'd keep his word and show up.  
His reply to my note had arrived barely half an hour after I'd sent my message to him.  
 _Will be waiting for you at the Central Station, Thursday 2 p.m._  
 _– H_  
I wonder yet again what he thought when he got my message – what he's thinking now. Does he resent me for burdening him with my problems all over again? Or is he resigned to getting the whole business over with as quickly as possible?  
The car pulls to a stop opposite a narrow building with steps leading up to a glass door. To my immense relief, the street is clear of reporters. Still; better not to take chances. The driver is barely halfway around the bonnet before I'm out of the car, one foot on the steps. I push through the door and into a plainly decorated lobby, Haymitch a few steps behind me.  
'Miss Everdeen, delighted to meet you.' A tall, straight-backed man comes forward, offering his hand. 'I'm Hector Thurman, your legal representative for tomorrow.' He throws Haymitch a brief smile, his teeth startlingly white against his dark skin. 'Mr Abernathy, we meet again.'  
I resist the temptation to look at Haymitch, instead shaking Thurman's hand. 'Thank you. But I thought I was meeting someone called Cassius Goldbloom.' I'd called Dr Aurelius in a panic a few days ago and he'd reassured me an attorney had been arranged to represent me.  
Thurman blinks at me, calm. 'Yes, I believe Cassius Goldbloom was initially your representative. But Mr Abernathy here referred me to your case, and your doctor agreed with him that my experience and legal background were more pertinent to your situation.' He pauses. 'Is that agreeable to you? If you're unhappy with the change, I can contact Mr Goldbloom for you immediately.'  
'I thought Aurelius told you,' Haymitch says quietly, finally looking at me.  
'I – haven't been answering all my calls,' I admit. 'It's fine.'  
Thurman smiles. 'Good. If you'll follow me, we'll go to my office, where we can talk properly.'  
Waiting for my nod, he turns and leads the way down a short corridor to a door with his name on a plaque. 'I apologise if the furnishings seem modest,' he says, ushering us into a moderately sized office. By Capitol standards the décor is austere. 'I was never very popular with our new president's predecessor, and it's taking me a while to build up my clientele.'  
The meeting lasts a couple of hours. Thurman is confident and clever, and beneath his formal way of speaking is a sincerity that makes him easy to trust. I take it as a good sign that Snow didn't like him.  
It seems there won't be much for me to say in the trial. I have little to say now, either, but Haymitch has a few questions, which Thurman seems to answer to his satisfaction. Once or twice I sense Haymitch's gaze stray to me, but I keep my eyes trained straight ahead.  
Thurman escorts us into the corridor, shaking my hand again. 'Let me assure you, Miss Everdeen, you have nothing to be troubled about. Your pardon is certain.'  
I shake Thurman's hand. 'Let's hope so.'  
He smiles, nods to Haymitch, then goes back into his office. I hesitate, eyes on the carpet, then take a rapid step toward the lobby.  
'Katniss. Wait.'  
I stop, aware of how stiff my shoulders must look. With an effort I release some of the tension cramping my muscles and turn to face Haymitch.  
He considers me for a moment. 'By the end of tomorrow this'll all be over and you'll be free to go.' He pauses. 'But until then we need to work together.'  
I let out a breath. 'All right.'  
He nods, his expression unreadable. 'Plutarch scheduled a press conference after your pardon. It'll be small. Five or six handpicked reporters.'  
Handpicked. That means these reporters will be sympathetic towards me, not gossip-mongers.  
'You should decide what you want to say about Peeta,' he says at last, not quite meeting my eyes.  
I feel my face heat up and struggle not to duck my head.  
'Mostly people will be asking about your pardon, your plans for the future. But they're bound to ask about Peeta, too.' His voice is cautious, and his eyes flick to mine before dropping again. 'I don't think "no comment" will be enough. This will be your chance to – change the conversation.' A note of his old irony creeps into his voice. 'Some people have made up their minds already. But most of them are waiting to hear from you. This is a chance for you to tell them what you want them to hear, in a – relatively – friendly environment.'  
Despite myself I'm impressed by his reasoning. He always was good at seeing things clearly, rationally. 'Maybe you should have Effie's job,' I mutter and he chuckles softly, without much humour.  
The sound affects me more than I expect, and I have to look away. It's been so long since I heard him laugh; and I feel a pang of melancholy. At once I shove it down.  
'You must have been approached,' I say at last. 'By reporters – about Peeta and Delly. What did you tell them?'  
As I speak I search his face for clues; whether he was surprised by the headlines, but it's impossible to tell.  
'I told them, "no comment".' He hesitates. 'I hope that was the right thing to do.'  
I nod, looking away, telling myself it doesn't matter what Haymitch thinks about it all, as long as he helps me placate the press. Once again, I'm relying on him to help fabricate my love life – or rather, my lack of one. But at least this time I don't have to pretend to be in love when I'm not. Though I dread the inevitable questions about the 'fallout', I'd rather be in this situation than the one I was in during the Victory Tour.  
Haymitch clears his throat, a slight frown between his brows. 'I'm not sure exactly what Aurelius told you but there'll be a reception tomorrow evening, to raise funds for Twelve. You're the main attraction. Attendance is optional, but you should know some of the people who're going are pretty influential – and wealthy.' He looks pained, and I know he hates being in the position of advising me to drum up sponsors.  
Sponsors. It sounds uncomfortably like the Games. But funds are scarce in 12, and it would be selfish of me to turn down this opportunity to raise money for the district – for my home.  
'What would I have to do?'  
He looks surprised that I haven't rejected the idea outright. 'There'll be one photographer. All other cameras are banned, as are reporters. You'll be talking to people, answering questions about Twelve, that sort of thing.'  
But I'm no longer listening. Two men have just stepped into the corridor, deep in conversation. The taller man has his face turned away from me, but I'd recognise his height and his gait anywhere. It's Gale.  
My chest seizes up, and suddenly I can't breathe. I've seen him on television more times than I can count – but this is something else entirely. I see a flash of bright light; feel the scorch of flames, even as I stand frozen in place in the hushed corridor.  
I'm vaguely aware that Haymitch has stopped talking and has turned to look back over his shoulder. A second passes. I'm terrified of the moment when Gale looks up and sees me – and yet I couldn't move if I tried. It feels like I've lost all control of my limbs.  
Then a hand takes my arm, decisively turning me away, guiding me down the corridor until we've turned a corner, then another. We come to a stop and I lower my head, drawing in a deep breath, my hands shaking.  
'He didn't see you,' Haymitch says. His voice is calm and firm; and I find myself meeting his eyes at last.  
He hesitates, licking his lips. 'Paylor told me what Snow said to you. About the bomb.'  
I stare at him, my stomach plummeting.  
'There was a camera and a microphone in the greenhouse. For security. Paylor was notified and passed the news onto me the day after you spoke to him.' He hesitates. 'I didn't say anything because I didn't think you'd want to talk about it.'  
I can't quite believe what I'm hearing; that he's known about this for months. My stomach jolts again as I realise he must have guessed my suspicion that Gale helped make the bomb – the bomb that killed Prim. I haven't spoken about it to anyone; not Peeta, not Dr Aurelius. Somehow I know without asking that Haymitch hasn't said anything to them, either, leaving it to me to tell them when I'm ready. I can't help feeling grateful for his discretion: like he guessed, I still don't feel ready to talk about it. Nor do I feel ready to come within sight of Gale again – or even just be in the same building as him.  
'What's he doing here?' I manage at last, my voice catching.  
'No idea. There's been talk about disbanding part of the army. Maybe that's it.' He pauses, his eyes holding mine. 'If I'd known he'd be here I would have arranged for Thurman to meet us someplace else.'  
I nod, and he looks relieved that I believe him.  
So Paylor knows what Snow said to me that day. Does she believe his claim? Then why place so much trust in Gale by giving him such a high-ranking job? I feel a rush of nausea and suddenly all I want to do is get back to the hotel. 'Let's get out of here.'

…

_Haymitch_  
The journey back to the hotel passes in silence. Katniss is withdrawn, her face turned towards the window. The little he can see of her expression is numb and preoccupied.  
As they'd got into the car he'd told her Gale wouldn't be at the reception tomorrow and she'd given a small nod before turning to the window.  
He wishes he could have spared her this encounter; the inevitable memories of her sister. It doesn't help that they're only a few miles away from where the bomb went off. He wants to say something, to take her mind away from her pain, but he can't think of anything; and besides, he senses she wants to be left alone.  
He thinks about the moment when she'd met his eyes at last in the corridor, how she'd seemed to believe him at once when he'd assured her he hadn't known about Hawthorne's presence in the building.  
They arrive at the hotel. A guard is stationed discreetly on either side of the entrance, as he'd requested. He and Katniss are greeted by the hotel manager, who gives Katniss her key, before they head into the elevator. They reach their floor and step into the corridor, walking in silence until they reach her room.  
He glances at her swiftly; her eyes are downcast, her walk heavy, her suitcase hanging limply from her hand. He can sense how much she needs to be alone, to process what's happened. Again he feels a stab of guilt for failing to anticipate Hawthorne's presence, for not being able to spare her this.  
'I'm in the room next to yours,' he says quietly, and she looks at him blankly. 'The trial starts at ten tomorrow morning. I'll knock on your door at nine-thirty. From here it's a five minute drive to the Judicial Hall.'  
'Ok.' Her voice is almost a whisper.  
'Someone from the hotel will bring up a meal for you, tonight and tomorrow morning, so you don't have to eat in the dining area.'  
She nods, her eyes still lowered.  
He wants to ask if she'll be all right, but the question seems pointless as she's so clearly not all right. Better to leave her be.  
'Well, I'll see you tomorrow. If you need anything, I'll be next door.' He turns to go.  
'Haymitch.'  
He stops, faces her.  
She hesitates, choosing her words. 'Thank you. For coming.'  
He blinks. 'No problem.' Then he stops. He could tell her he would have come no matter what, if she'd asked him to. But how could he expect her to believe him?  
Her eyes shift down and he stays silent.  
'Peeta gave me a letter, to give to you.' She reaches into her pocket, pulls out an envelope and holds it out to him. As he reaches for it his fingers brush hers and she gives a small start. As soon as he's got hold of the letter she lets go and her hand drops to her side.  
Her eyes flit to his, then away again, and he watches as her expression turns inwards once more. 'See you tomorrow.' And she turns to her door, fitting her key into the lock.  
He watches the door close behind her then digs into his pocket for his own key. Stepping into his room, he undoes his tie and lets it slip to the floor, then goes straight to the drinks cupboard, stocked with whisky. It was the first thing he checked when he'd brought up his luggage. He pours himself a generous quantity and slumps into an armchair.  
The numb despair in her eyes won't leave him. Once he would have offered to stay with her, but now he doesn't dare ask. Instead he reaches for the phone by his chair.  
'Haymitch.' Peeta sounds surprised to hear from him, with good reason. They haven't spoken since Haymitch left 12, and Haymitch's replies to Peeta's letters are always brief and unforthcoming.  
'Is everything ok over there? The reporters haven't given you too much trouble? How's Katniss?'  
'It's going ok. We've managed to avoid the reporters so far. But …' He briefly explains that Katniss had seen something to do with the bomb that killed her sister, and that she's become withdrawn and sad. He doesn't mention Gale, not wanting to explain it all without Katniss's permission. 'You should talk to her,' he says at last.  
Peeta hesitates. Then: 'Of course. I'll call the front desk right away; get them to patch me through.'  
'Don't – don't say I told you to call.'  
Peeta does his best to cover his surprise. 'All right. If that's what you want. Bye, Haymitch. I'm glad you're there with her.'  
And he rings off before Haymitch has a chance to come up with a reply.  
Next he calls Dr Aurelius, briefly summarising Katniss's mood and explaining that she's talking to Peeta at the moment.  
'I'll call her in two hours, then. I was intending to anyway, what with the trial tomorrow. But I'm glad you called me.'  
They say goodbye and Haymitch leans back in his chair with a sigh. Hopefully talking to Peeta and Aurelius will calm Katniss, and she'll be able to face the trial tomorrow.  
He finds himself remembering their brief conversation outside her room. Her thanks had been sincere – sincerer than he feels he deserves, and he can't forget how she'd looked at him in the corridor of Thurman's building, a mix of vulnerability and trust, a look he'd never expected her to give him again.  
It's hard not to take these things as signs, to keep himself from reading too much into them. He doesn't dare hope for more; that he and Katniss could ever return to the closeness they'd had in 12. As long as he manages to see her through this, he tells himself, to get her through the next day and see her return home safely; he can accept that this is as close as they'll ever be again.  
Gradually the hours pass. He leaves Peeta's note in his pocket, not quite ready to face reading it. At some point the telephone rings; it's Effie, demanding he come and meet her downtown since they're finally in the same district again, but he pretends he's already busy.  
He drinks slowly, careful to stay alert in case there's trouble with reporters downstairs.  
She must have finished speaking to Peeta and Aurelius by now. He longs to know how she is, if she's better, but he's sure she won't want to see him.  
A few minutes later, as if he'd read his thoughts, Peeta calls. 'She seemed better when I finished talking to her. She's still sad; but she's ready for the trial.' He hesitates, and Haymitch can tell he's about to suggest Haymitch go check on her himself.  
'Thanks. I'll call you tomorrow, let you know how it all goes,' Haymitch says firmly, and Peeta bids him goodnight.

…

_Katniss_  
I'd never imagined I'd meet Gale in the Capitol. Seeing him made me feel like I was watching Prim die all over again. In my hotel room I'd barely had time to start to process what I was feeling before the phone had rung and I'd picked it up to hear Peeta's voice. After talking to him, and later to Dr Aurelius, I feel calmer, like I can breathe more freely. I know that I still haven't fully dealt with the encounter, but I'm able to partition it away as something I can return to when I'm safe in 12 again. Right now I have to focus on getting through the trial.  
Even before Peeta started speaking, I sensed that he knew something of what had happened. Dr Aurelius, with all the experience of his profession, was better able to hide it, but I feel sure someone must have told him, too. That someone must be Haymitch. My heart speeds up a fraction; he'd called them both, to tell them to call me. As I remember how quickly he'd reacted when he'd seen Gale, how he'd guided me away somewhere safe when I'd felt frozen to the spot, I can't quite convince myself that he'd done it out of duty alone.  
I think of the look in his eyes as he'd told me he'd had no idea Gale would be there. It was so easy to trust him – almost too easy. All along I've been telling myself to keep my distance, that our friendship is over, but now I'm starting to hope it might not be – and that hope is dangerous. 


	14. Chapter 14

****

**Chapter Fourteen**

At nine a.m. there's a knock at my door. Pulling on my jacket, the sleeves stiff and uncomfortable, I go to open it.  
Haymitch is waiting, his gaze searching my face. He's wearing an uncharacteristically sober grey suit with a dark blue tie. It suits him; though seeing him so sombrely dressed only makes me even more conscious of my awaiting trial.  
He looks tired, like he hasn't slept. I barely managed more than a few hours' sleep myself, and I feel on-edge, my thoughts jittery with tension.  
'You ok?' he asks quietly.  
Nodding, I step into the corridor and lock my door behind me. His eyes linger on me before he turns and leads the way to the elevator. We descend to the ground floor, then cross the lobby and get into the waiting car, in silence.  
Throughout the journey to the Judicial Hall I focus on keeping my breathing steady, trying not to think about what's coming. Half an hour ago, in an attempt to distract myself, I'd turned on the television – and caught the ending of an impassioned discussion of why I shouldn't be pardoned.  
Thurman and Dr Aurelius have both assured me my pardon is guaranteed. I tell myself it's just a trial, not the arena, or a warzone like in 8, but I still can't rid myself of the sickening feeling in my stomach.  
I'm expecting reporters, but that still doesn't quite prepare me for the crowd swarming the steps of the Hall. They start clamouring the second they catch sight of the car and the noise-cancelling sides of the vehicle can't completely muffle their calls.  
To my relief we drive right past them and turn into a driveway manned by four guards.  
'Security's tight here,' Haymitch says behind me. 'They won't get in.'  
I nod, realise I'm biting my nails, and quickly put my hand on my knee.  
The car stops and I climb out, slightly unsteady. My legs don't feel like they'll carry me but somehow I manage to walk briskly into the building, following Haymitch into a small room adjoining the courtroom. We don't see any reporters, though several dark-suited guards nod as we pass them.  
'Thurman should be here in ten minutes,' Haymitch says, standing by the door as I lower myself into a chair.  
I stare at the floor, my arms crossed tightly over my chest, willing this all to be over. I can't forget that the last time I was on trial people were deciding whether or not to execute me.  
I must make a noise because suddenly Haymitch's hand is on my wrist, pressing gently. 'Hey.' He sits on the seat next to mine. 'Katniss, look at me.'  
I turn to face him, trying to hide how close I am to panic, and failing.  
His eyes narrow with sympathy and his hand slides down, his fingers linking with mine. I clutch back, my nausea receding as I focus on the pressure of his fingers, warm and faintly calloused.  
'It's going to be fine. It's standard procedure, nothing more.' His head is close to mine, his voice low; a murmur that I feel on my skin. 'You went through the questions they'll ask with Thurman. All you have to do is say yes and no. That's all. It'll be over before you know it.'  
My voice trembles as I finally voice the fear that's been with me for days, exacerbated by our encounter with Gale the day before. 'But what if they want me to look at evidence? What if – what if they show footage of the bombings?' I can hardly get the words out.  
He shakes his head, firm. 'They reviewed all that yesterday. They were in court for over eight hours – and they agreed no further evidence would be shown today.' His voice brooks no argument. 'There's no question that you'll be pardoned.'  
I breathe in shakily. His thumb strokes my skin, grounding me.  
'It'll be all right, Katniss. You're gonna be ok. I promise.'  
As I look at him I feel a sudden pang of longing, so strong it's like a blow. His voice, his hand linked with mine – it's like we're back in 12, that afternoon in late winter when we sat by the lake together, watching the geese flying over the water, after he found me in the woods. I close my eyes, trying to force back the warning sting of tears. I want so badly to go back to that moment – to the closeness we used to have. Suddenly I can hardly bear not to ask the question that's been on my mind ever since: why did you leave?  
But I don't. I look down, nodding faintly, taking a slow breath. 'All right.'  
He smiles, relieved. 'Good girl.'  
Footsteps echo in the corridor and he looks up, past me. 'That's Thurman.' His eyes go back to mine, steady and deep. 'I'll see you inside.'  
'Ok.'  
He squeezes my hand then gets to his feet. I watch as he crosses the room, glancing back at me from the door. He vanishes into the corridor and I hear him have a brief, muted conversation with Thurman, before his footsteps move away and Thurman comes in. I stand, shoulders stiff.  
He smiles with assurance. 'It's time.'

…

The trial passes in a blur. Once I'm seated in the witness box, and it's clear no evidence will be shown, I feel some of my sickness recede. Every few minutes I glance at Haymitch, only a few metres away from me, sitting just one row behind Thurman, and his eyes dart to mine, sensing my gaze.  
There are only three judges – a good sign. At my first trial there'd been fourteen, one for each of the districts, and one for the Capitol.  
The questions are simple. Aurelius testifies, as my doctor, followed by Haymitch. As Haymitch talks, his eyes fixed on the Chief Justice's, his voice firm and persuasive, I find myself remembering the footage I saw of him speaking at my last trial.  
When it's Thurman's turn to speak his voice rolls through the hall, resonant and powerful, his words strong and convincing. It's easy to understand why Haymitch contacted him for the job.  
Paylor is there, too, and Plutarch. Both of them testify in my defence, surprising me with their conviction. When they've said their piece they both leave; no doubt they have plenty of other matters to occupy their time.  
At last the judges rise and go through to an antechamber to consider their verdict.  
Glancing at the clock, I realise almost two hours have gone by. After ten minutes the judges return and the Chief Justice stands behind her lectern to read out the verdict.  
'The court finds Katniss Everdeen absolved of the crime of assassinating Alma Coin on January 14, in the year 76 A.D.D.'  
I exhale, not quite able to believe it. I glance at Haymitch; he's smiling openly.  
A document with my pardon is brought to me to sign. My palms are damp with sweat, but I manage to produce a smooth signature. Then the document is passed back to the judges' table for each of the three judges to sign, and finally, it's over.  
Thurman comes forward and takes my elbow, leading me from the courtroom. When we emerge into the main corridor Haymitch is waiting. There's the smallest of smiles on his lips but his eyes gleam with deep satisfaction. I smile back at him, almost weightless with relief.  
'Well done,' he says simply.  
'It's over,' I manage, letting out the breath I've been holding since the trial started.  
His hand touches my arm, and a jolt seems to pass from his fingers to my skin beneath my sleeve. I keep still, looking back at him, not wanting him to move away. His eyes look deep into mine and for a moment it's like everything is as it used to be. His lips part, but he doesn't speak, and I wonder if he feels the same thing.  
Out of the corner of my eye I see Thurman watching us. Haymitch follows my glance and we step away from each other, his hand falling from my arm.  
'The car's waiting outside to take us to the press conference,' he says after a pause, and his voice somehow sounds much too loud and far away.  
Us. 'You're not leaving yet?' I ask softly.  
His eyes search mine. 'I'll stay until you're ready to go back to Twelve.'  
I nod, glancing down to hide my relief. It's not just the thought that his presence will make me safer, a barrier between me and the media. In the last two hours something's changed; things feel almost like they used to in 12, before he left – and some part of me is sure that if he leaves again that feeling will be gone forever.  
'Let's go,' I tell him at last.  
Thurman steps forward to say goodbye, and I thank him for his help. He shakes my hand with a warm smile, teeth flashing white as pearls.  
A stern-faced woman I remember from the trial passes us with a glance and stops to talk with Haymitch. They move away a few feet and Thurman casts a look at the woman before turning back to me.  
'Ida Bergman. She was one of the first to suggest that you should be pardoned. Haymitch had been spreading the idea around for a few weeks already – he'd already come to me to check that a pardon for you was legally feasible given the circumstances – and finally Ida took up the idea with her colleagues.'  
My heart is beating hard in my chest. 'You mean you've been working on my case for all that time?'  
'Oh yes. We wanted to make sure it was rock solid before we let a trial take place. I'm sorry we didn't notify you, but we agreed it was best not to get your hopes up until we were sure the verdict would be the one we wanted.'  
He lets this sink in before continuing, 'Haymitch was adamant that we should keep the press from getting wind of it at all costs.' Thurman gives a wry smile. 'Sadly they got hold of the news in the end, as they had to – but I was expecting them to find out much sooner than they did.'  
Ida Bergman has moved away and Haymitch turns to look at us, his gaze finding mine.  
Quickly, I turn back to Thurman. 'I want you to check something for me. From my trial. The first one.'

…

Ten minutes later the car pulls up outside a government building, where the conference is being held. Haymitch and I climb out of the car and hurry inside. Plutarch is waiting in the lobby, and – to my surprise – President Paylor is with him. She shakes my hand, smiling broadly.  
'I was very pleased to hear the verdict,' she says. 'I hope you can find peace now that you've finally been granted your pardon.'  
I shake her hand with some trepidation, now that I know she knows about my conversation with Snow in the greenhouse.  
Plutarch congratulates me heartily before getting back to business. 'The reporters are all present. We'll need your presence again this evening, for a sponsored reception, and tomorrow night, at the Memorial Ceremony.'  
Haymitch had warned me yesterday about the reception, and in the car he'd told me about the ceremony, emphasising that my attendance is by no means mandatory. Now I feel a prickle of annoyance at how certain Plutarch seems that I'll attend.  
'I'll go to the event tonight,' I say, looking him straight in the eye. 'But I'm leaving tomorrow morning, ceremony or no ceremony.'  
He blinks, a small frown dipping his thick eyebrows. A second later he summons a smile, ready to convince me to reconsider – but Paylor speaks first.  
'All right, Katniss. It's your decision. I'll be sorry not to see you there, but you've earned a trip home.' A small smile lifts her lips as she glances at Plutarch. 'I'm just sorry you aren't giving me a list.'  
My cheeks go warm with embarrassment as I remember the list of demands I presented to Plutarch and Coin in 13. 'Maybe next time,' I mumble, and Paylor laughs, before bidding us goodbye, escorted by a guard.  
'Well,' says Plutarch, not quite fully recovered from the surprise of my refusal. 'Let's not keep the reporters waiting.' As he leads the way, Haymitch falls into step beside me.  
'Nicely done,' he murmurs, and I throw a quick glance at him. There's a gleam of approval in his eye, and a moment passes before I look away.  
We follow Plutarch to a conference room. Half a dozen reporters are sitting in a row in the middle of the room. Their heads turn as we enter through a side door, and the cameramen dotted around the walls straighten up behind their cameras.  
To my relief the questions pass quickly. The reporters speak one at a time and I keep my answers as brief as possible. Most of the questions are about the trial and my reaction to the verdict. A few reporters ask about Peeta, and I tell them he wasn't well enough to come to the Capitol, and that I was glad to hear of his engagement to Delly. As I say this, I'm aware of Haymitch behind me. We haven't talked about Peeta at all, and I wonder what he's thinking.  
Once all the reporters have had their turn, I'm escorted into a private corridor, where Plutarch praises my conduct in the interview, reminds me about the reception, then says farewell, almost in a single breath, his usual jollity having returned in full force.  
Plutarch hasn't yet rounded the corner when there's a polite cough at my elbow. 'Miss Everdeen.' A young man nods to me, holding out an envelope. 'From Hector Thurman, with his regards.'  
I take it, thanking him. It must be Thurman's answer to my question. Haymitch looks at me questioningly as the messenger walks away.  
'Nothing important,' I mutter.  
He nods, but his eyes linger on the envelope in my hands, marked with my name in neat cursive. 'Where do you want to go?'  
With this question I'm suddenly vividly aware that we're alone together; for the first time since before the trial. There's something cautious about his voice, and I know he's realised the same thing.  
Part of me wants him to suggest we go somewhere together, while there's still time before the reception. I don't dare suggest it myself. Not until I've read my note from Thurman, and to do that I need to be alone.  
'Let's go back to the hotel until the sponsor event,' I say at last.  
But we've barely stepped out of the building when a figure appears out of nowhere, blocking my path.  
'Surprise.'  
It's Johanna. Her cheeks filled out, her hair now chin-length, she looks markedly different from when I last saw her. All but her eyes, which stare at me darkly.  
Haymitch, who had moved in front of me in anticipation of reporters, now steps back with a smile. 'Johanna. What are you doing here?'  
'I was in town and heard the good news.' She fixes me with a stare, unsmiling. I stare back, unnerved. 'So, what are your plans?'  
I blink. 'What?'  
'Plans. To celebrate.' No one else I know can sound so deadpan and defiant at the same time.  
'Oh. Nothing.'  
She rolls her eyes. 'Right. You're coming with me.' Grabbing my arm with one hand and Haymitch's with the other, she pulls us towards the waiting car and pushes us into the back, climbing in after me and slamming the door.  
'The Nightjar,' she calls.  
The driver turns to look at me, one eyebrow raised. I nod and he starts the car: it's too much effort to fight Johanna.  
'Been there?' Johanna asks Haymitch, across me.  
He just shakes his head with a smile, which means he has.  
She glances at me, waiting for me to ask what it's like, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction and she flops back with a gusty sigh.  
'It's members only,' she says, and I realise she's trying to reassure me, in her own brusque way, that I'll be able to go relatively unnoticed. 'And select guests.'  
I'm intensely conscious of Haymitch on my left side, how close his shoulder is to mine. He absentmindedly smooths out a crease just above his right knee and out of nowhere I wonder what it would be like if he moved his hand from his knee to mine instead.  
'Isn't it a little early to be drinking?' I say quickly, grateful my hair hides my face from view.  
Haymitch chuckles deep in his throat, and in the small space I seem to feel the vibration of his voice. 'Better ask someone else.'  
Johanna's laugh is more like a snort, making no attempt to hide her contempt for the question. 'You've just been pardoned for assassinating a president. If that doesn't earn you a drink, what does?'  
It only takes a few minutes to reach the bar. Haymitch gets out first, and as I climb out he holds the door open for me.  
'Sure you're ok with coming here?' he asks quietly while Johanna is still skirting the back of the car.  
I nod. It's almost certain reporters will have gathered by the time we come out again, but for once I'm willing to risk it. The idea of a drink is appealing, and now that I have my pardon, the thought of the press doesn't frighten me as much as it used to, especially as the press conference went so smoothly. There's another reason, too. Even in the ten minutes since Johanna joined us, there's been something different about Haymitch, something different about me, too. There's less strain between us, less silence. It's like her presence lifts a pressure away, and I want it to stay that way as long as possible.  
Johanna leads us inside. The lighting is muted. There's hardly anyone around at this hour, to my relief. She takes us straight to the bar, ordering three martinis. When they come she downs hers in almost one go, while Haymitch sips his slowly. I take a cautious mouthful. It tastes dry and bitter, chilling my tongue.  
'Like it?' Haymitch asks.  
I pull a face and he laughs. 'Takes some getting used to.'  
'You've been here before?' I ask him.  
'Chaff took me here a couple of times.'  
'More like fifty,' Johanna chimes in from my other side, eyes glinting. 'You and Finnick had to carry him out one night, remember?'  
He shakes his head, half-embarrassed, half-amused.  
I wonder if this is somewhere they used to gather, the mentors. Peeta and I are the only Victors who never became mentors, something I've always been grateful for. But now I find myself wondering what it would have been like. The burden of watching your Tributes die would have been unimaginable – but at least you would have had people with you who understood. I envy Johanna her easy way with Haymitch. They must have known each other for years now.  
A smartly dressed man appears at Haymitch's elbow and asks to speak with him about government business. Haymitch glances at me and I nod quickly. He follows the man to the other side of the room. I observe them from the corner of my eye, still not quite used to Haymitch's government role. He looks serious, listening closely to what the man is saying. As I watch them I feel a pang of melancholy; tomorrow morning he'll be going back to 5, to a life that has nothing to with me.  
'Looks good, doesn't he?'  
I tear my eyes away and turn to Johanna, my cheeks burning belatedly as her question sinks in. 'What?' I manage – but the question sounds more worried than astounded and she smiles mercilessly, eyes glinting.  
'You don't think so?' she presses.  
I stay silent, careful to keep my face neutral. My heart starts to pound, my blood speeding up even as time seems to slow. I wait uneasily for her next words.  
She looks down at the bottle cap she's twisting in her fingers. 'I guess I wondered… All that time it was just the two of you, in lonely Victor's Village.'  
I'm glad I haven't taken another sip of my drink yet or I think I would have choked.  
She laughs at my expression. 'Come on. Only an imbecile wouldn't be curious. The Games, the Rebellion – you two have been through a lot – and that can bring people together in strange ways. Like Peeta and Delly, for instance.'  
I stare down into my drink, not rising to the bait. Her words are affecting me more than they should. There's an ache behind my ribs, and depression is stealing over me.  
'He's watching you again.'  
I duck my head, and she laughs. 'Hasn't he said anything to you?'  
At once my mood drops further, remembering what he said in 12, before he left. But at the same time I think of the way he looked at me in the corridor after my pardon, his hand on my arm, his eyes warm, and my stomach clenches sharply.  
She notices my changed mood. 'What happened?'  
I shake my head, mouth dry. 'I don't want to talk about it.'  
She's quiet for a minute. 'I heard he left Twelve suddenly. The power station and everything else that was happening.' She glances at me. 'That was only a few weeks after Peeta got back, wasn't it?'  
I nod, only half-listening, as I struggle to hold back the memories her words are stirring up.  
'Haven't you ever wondered if the two things are connected?'  
For a long moment I don't move. 'What?'  
She shakes her head, disparaging. 'You really are clueless, aren't you?'  
My voice isn't quite steady. 'You're joking.'  
Her eyes narrow, a mix of pity and scorn. 'That's up to you.' She downs her drink in one. 'Congratulations, Katniss. Now you have your freedom you have to decide what to do with it.' Fixing me with one last look, she stalks out, waving to Haymitch as she passes him. A second later his eyes go to me and I turn away, grabbing my glass and draining it.  
I've barely finished it when a full glass slides into my vision. 'You look like you could do with another,' says the bartender. I don't disagree, taking first one sip, then another.  
Could Johanna be right? Was it Peeta's arrival that pushed Haymitch to leave? Memories are surfacing in my mind. Haymitch's increasing tiredness after Peeta's return, the way he snapped at me when I went to ask him for advice about approaching Peeta, and finally, his cruelty when he told me he was leaving. I remember how he stayed away most evenings, giving Peeta and I time to get used to each other again – what if his departure was just a more extreme example of that intention?  
I can feel Thurman's note burning a hole in my pocket. But I can't read it yet. Not here. I reach for my glass, lifting it to my lips, when a voice speaks by my ear.  
'Woah there, what's the hurry?'  
Each individual beat of my heart is suddenly palpable. I don't know if his presence makes me feel more safe or anxious – and the realisation is terrifying.  
'If you really want to knock yourself out, better wait till we're back at the hotel. There's plenty of liquor there; I checked.' He's smiling his lopsided smirk, eyes glinting. A hard tight ball of feeling lodges in my chest. I haven't seen him smile like that in months.  
His smile falters. 'What's the matter?' Even in the low light of the bar his eyes are piercingly blue as he studies my expression.  
'Nothing.' I look away quickly. 'I'm not good company right now. You should leave me alone.'  
'You know I can't do that,' he says and I feel a flush of heat spread to my cheeks and palms.  
'You're tired, and you should eat something,' he continues, gentle now. 'Why don't we head back to the hotel? There's still a couple hours to go before we have to be at the reception.'  
'All right.' I get to my feet, and stumble as the ground rushes towards me. Haymitch steadies me, his arm across the back of my waist.  
'Ok?'  
I nod quickly, too embarrassed to speak. I haven't eaten since this morning and after the martinis my head feels weightless and heavy at the same time. He stays close by me as we head for the exit. 


	15. Chapter 15

****

**Chapter Fifteen**

_Haymitch_  
They leave through the back exit to avoid the reporters who've gathered on the main street. The driver is waiting for them. He and Katniss climb into the back and the car pulls away.  
'Plutarch's arranged for a stylist to come to your room at seven,' he tells her, and she pulls a slight face before nodding.  
'Better keep the sponsors happy,' she mutters, before looking down at her hands.  
He watches her, looking away when it's clear she's avoiding his eyes.  
Something must have happened when she'd spoken to Johanna. Part of him longs to ask what Johanna said to her – but at the same time he's afraid of the questions she might ask in turn.  
In the corridor after her trial she'd smiled at him as though the last six months had never happened, and later in the bar, while he'd been talking to a delegate from 4, he'd sensed her watching him as if she was trying to work him out.  
He's conscious of the sides of the car enclosing them. In the back of the car with Johanna there'd been less than an inch between him and Katniss. Now there's a whole seat between them, yet still he senses every shift of her hands, her every intake of breath. He's not sure how much longer he can bear this mix of hope and longing.  
They arrive at the hotel and take the elevator up to their floor. 'I'll knock at half seven,' he says and she nods, smiling briefly before letting herself into her room.  
He fishes out his key and unlocks his door. Inside his room, he heads to the drinks cabinet and pours himself a small glass.  
Had she meant it in the press conference, when she'd said she was happy for Peeta and Delly? There hadn't been a trace of bitterness or regret in her voice, only acceptance.  
What's she thinking now, on the other side of the wall?  
The phone rings, startling him. He snatches it up. 'Yes?' he snaps.  
'You're needed at the Ministry of Infrastructure. There are some problems in Five and the Minister need your input.'  
'Plutarch.' Haymitch sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. 'Can't you deal with it?'  
'This calls for your expertise. No one else knows the ins and outs of the situation like you do.'  
He can tell from Plutarch's tone that this isn't something he can escape. 'I'll be there in ten minutes.'  
Plutarch breaks in before he can hang up. 'Make it twenty. You should change first, for the reception.'  
Haymitch fights not to roll his eyes. 'Fine. See you there.'

...

_Katniss_  
Once I'm in my room I go straight to the table where a selection of food has been artfully arranged. Someone has thoughtfully left some bread rolls and cakes commonly eaten in 12, and I chew through a couple, feeling my head start to clear after the martinis.  
Ten minutes after I've just finished eating there's a knock at my door. I hesitate before answering, wondering if it's Haymitch or if the stylist has come early.  
I find Haymitch standing outside my room, wearing a charcoal grey suit with a black shirt slightly open at the neck. His shoulders are broad in the fitted jacket, and there's a self-consciousness to his stance that makes me feel a sudden lurch of longing. At once I hear Johanna's taunting whisper ('Looks good, doesn't he?')and hope he can't see how warm my cheeks are.  
His eyes hold mine, curious, a small frown deepening the line between his eyebrows.  
'Going somewhere?' I manage.  
He shifts. 'Just got a call from Plutarch. He wants me at one of the Ministries. It doesn't seem like something I can get out of. Will you be all right to head to the reception on your own? I'll get there as soon as I can.'  
I nod quickly. 'Sure.'  
He smiles, his eyes warm, and I feel my breath constrict.  
'All right. I'll see you there.'  
I watch him until he reaches the elevator, then quickly shut the door.  
I go to sit on my bed, falling onto the mattress with a thump. The sight of him outside my door is stirring up memories I'd forbidden myself to think about: how he'd found me in the woods when I'd been close to panic; the way he'd smiled when he'd seen me the next day. And the moment when he'd reached out and smoothed my neck clean, and I'd wondered if he could feel my pulse catching in my throat.  
My fingers shake slightly as I reach for Thurman's letter and open the envelope. Inside are several sheets of thick paper, accompanied by a short note, which I read first.  
 _Miss Everdeen,  
I enclose a transcript of the verdict of your first trial. If there is any further information you wish to access, do not hesitate to contact me.  
Yours,  
Hector Thurman_  
My heart pounding slowly, I scan through the transcript until I come to the bit I want.  
 _H. ABERNATHY: Your Honour. Katniss needs to be in 12. It's her home. But, like you said, you need someone there to monitor her, since Aurelius can't leave the Capitol.  
THE COURT: I assume you have a suggestion, Mr Abernathy? Are you volunteering your services?  
H. ABERNATHY: Let me keep an eye on her. She listens to me at least 80% of the time and I don't see anyone else jumping at the chance to live in a godforsaken place like 12.  
THE COURT: But you would?  
H. ABERNATHY: If it keeps her out of a padded cell, then yes.  
THE COURT: Very well. We will consider your request and give you our answer in the next session._  
I lower the transcript and lay it on the bedcover beside me, absorbing what I've just read. Dr Aurelius was right. Haymitch volunteered to go to 12 with me. There were no orders.  
I feel no surprise, only a sense of confirmation, and relief. Johanna's words hover at the edge of my thoughts – and with them are the memories of all the times Haymitch was there for me in 12 – and the thought that he came here to the Capitol to help me after I summoned him at the last possible moment.  
I want to call up every memory of our interactions of the last two days and the last few weeks in 12 before he left to examine each and every one of them in light of what Johanna said: _'I heard he left Twelve suddenly. Only a few weeks after Peeta got back. Haven't you ever wondered if the two things are connected?'_  
But with an effort of will I focus on the reception, and what I'll say to him there. I don't need to review anything from the past – my sense of confirmation when I read the letter is enough. When I see him at the reception, one way or another, I'll know for sure.  
The next hour passes painfully slowly. I can't rid myself of the feeling that time is running out – because tomorrow Haymitch will be leaving for 5, while I head for 12 – and I don't know when I'll see him again.  
At last the stylist arrives with an assistant in tow, and for the next half an hour their fussing and prodding keep me occupied. The dress they've brought fits me perfectly.  
'Miss Trinket called to give us some pointers,' sniffs the stylist. 'I must admit she has a good eye.'  
The white dress flows to the floor, cinching in at the waist, draping in graceful folds. To my relief, the makeup they've applied is minimal. Small white and red flowers have been subtly placed in my hair, which is secured in a loose chignon at the back of my neck, drawing attention to the V of the dress's neckline. I can't help wondering what Haymitch will think, before the stylist starts to hurry me from the room, warning me I'll be late.  
To my surprise, when I reach the lobby I find Effie herself waiting for me. She claps her hands in delight when she sees me and enfolds me in a cautious hug, careful not to crease our dresses.  
'You look divine, Katniss. I knew that dress would suit you. I was so pleased to hear of your pardon. Haymitch told me you were heading to the reception on your own, and I couldn't let that happen so I came here to meet you. I hope you're pleased to see me.'  
'Yes,' I say, slightly breathless from all her talking. I've missed her, I realise.  
Her expression turns thoughtful. 'You know, this dress is one that Cinna designed for you just before the Quarter Quell announcement. A little plain for the Capitol, perhaps, but he was adamant that the simplicity would become you, and clearly he was right.'  
My throat closes up as I think of Cinna and how much I miss his friendship; but at the same time I feel some of my nervousness dissipate. Knowing that Cinna designed this dress makes it feel like he's still with me, giving me courage.  
During the ride to the reception Effie tells me all about her new job – and her new boyfriend, a distant cousin of the late Seneca Crane. They met seven weeks ago in District 4 ('the sun was setting over the sea – it was like something out of a romance') and since then they've been seeing each other almost every day.  
The car stops and we climb out, passing through a huge pair of oak-carved doors into a wide marble-lined entrance hall. Laughter is audible even as we start to climb the stairs, erupting when we reach the function room. Groups of richly dressed people talk and laugh and glide from table to table, flutes of champagne in hand. Pairs of dancers are whirling around the floor, skirts floating and coat tails lifting. A group of Capitol elite descends on us the moment we appear on the threshold, clasping my hands in cool, ring-laden fingers, kissing my cheek with cold, powdered lips.  
Surrounded by their wealth, suspiciously undiminished by the recent war, I'm reminded of something Haymitch had said as we'd driven to the press conference and I'd been struck by the people strolling the sidewalk, idle and rich-looking. 'Lots of people managed to hold on to their wealth through the war. Now the government's trying to influence how they spend it.' Events such as this one are just one way Paylor's administration is encouraging Capitol elites to spend their money on good causes, having abandoned the idea of seizing their wealth; the public backlash would have been devastating. Where once Capitol citizens sponsored Tributes to murder each other in the Hunger Games, now they sponsor poverty-stricken orphans in District 11, or fund the construction of a new railway line.  
All through the endless introductions I manage to keep my smile fixed on my face, my laugh natural-sounding to anyone who doesn't know me well. I force myself to remember that this evening might result in funds for 12, but even then it's hard to maintain my smile. After twenty introductions, the faces start to blur, becoming one hundred, two hundred. The only good thing about this party is that cameras are forbidden.  
I'd been dreading being interrogated about my feelings about Delly and Peeta's engagement – but to my relief no one mentions them. Effie had promised me the Capitol elite – those prominent enough to be invited to this reception – are far too tactful to bring up gossip and personal affairs, and it seems she's right.  
An hour passes, and still Haymitch doesn't come. I can't keep my eyes from going to the entrance every few minutes, from scanning the crowd for his familiar figure. My heart starts beating harder. What if I don't see him again before he leaves for 5? I make myself a promise; if he still isn't here in an hour's time, I'll go back to the hotel and wait for him there.

…

_Haymitch_  
Three hours after his arrival, he finally breaks away from the heated debate. He'd managed to help devise a solution which seemed to appease most of the representatives, and Plutarch sends him a nod as he stalks from the room.  
He'd thought the meeting would keep his mind occupied, distracted from Katniss, but he hadn't been able to keep his thoughts away from her, and with every minute that had passed he'd felt himself getting more and more frustrated, ready to seize the first chance to escape.  
Katniss's driver is waiting outside for him.  
'She get to the reception ok?' Haymitch asks as he climbs into the back.  
'Yes. Miss Trinket went with her.'  
'Good.'  
The car pulls away. As he leans back in the seat, his jacket rustles, and he reaches inside to take out the envelope stored in his pocket. It's Peeta's letter; some instinct had made him grab it as he'd left to go to the Ministry.  
With unsteady fingers, he tears open the envelope and removes the letter.  
 _Dear Haymitch,_  
I want to thank you for helping Katniss with her trial. It came as no surprise to me that you were willing to drop everything to be there for her in the Capitol. I know something must have happened when you left 12, and I know you and Katniss haven't been in contact since. But I'm glad she can still depend on you, especially as I wasn't able to be there for her.  
My other reason for writing is to apologise for not telling you about Delly sooner. You're my friend, and you shouldn't have had to find out about our engagement through talk shows and magazine headlines. I was planning to tell you immediately after I'd proposed – but the press saw me buying Delly's ring and suddenly the news was out. I didn't tell you sooner because I wanted to make sure it was real, that it can really work between Delly and me. I hope you understand.  
I don't know if Katniss told you, but a week after I got back to 12 she and I agreed we'd go back to being friends, and nothing more. We both thought it was the best thing to do, so our friendship could regrow without pressure or expectations. I think Katniss was surprised to hear about me and Delly, but after the initial shock she couldn't have been more supportive.  
I hope you can forgive me, and that Delly and I can hope to have your blessing. We both agree there's no one we'd rather have as our best man than you.  
Your friend,  
Peeta

…

The entrance hall is empty apart from a pair of guards standing by the doors and he crosses the gleaming floor with quick steps. He mounts the stairs, listening to the sound of voices floating down from above, trying to distinguish hers among them. Reaching the landing, he approaches the doorway of the function room and stops a few feet inside the room, eyes moving across the groups of people, the dancers circling the floor – when he sees her. She's standing in profile to him, listening to a sponsor talking. He can't pull his eyes away from the elegant slope of her neck, the curve of her back. She's more beautiful than he's ever seen her, and he doesn't know if he wants to run to her or run from her. Then her head turns and her eyes find him, and his legs start to carry him towards her, his heart starting up again.  
'Abernathy, we were hoping to see you here.' Two men he knows from 5 have stepped into his path, both sporting business-like smiles.

…

_Katniss_  
Disappointment floods through me as two men I vaguely recognise from television close in on Haymitch, obviously keen to consult him – but then a moment later he extracts himself and continues to head in my direction, his eyes on mine.  
He comes to a stop in front of me. From the way he's looking at me I know that something's changed. There's a new intensity to him, a slight tension – and yet sureness as well.  
He wets his lips but doesn't speak, and I know that I'll have to be the one to break the silence.  
'How was the meeting?' I ask, my mouth dry.  
He shrugs. 'It couldn't finish quickly enough.' There's a note to his voice that makes my heart catch in anticipation.  
Silence falls again. I'm about to speak, when he says, 'Want to dance?'  
I hesitate – too surprised to answer at once. There's a flicker in his expression, and he starts to mutter that it was a bad idea, but I cut across him.  
'Yes.'  
His eyes search mine with a hint of wariness, but he nods, and I feel his hand gently close around mine.  
He leads me onto the floor and I let myself be drawn along by him. He lifts my hand to his shoulder, then places his hand on my waist, reaching for my other hand with his free one. I feel my skin heat up where his hand lies against my side.  
'Ok?' he asks softly.  
I nod quickly. We start to move, slowly at first, then more smoothly. He leads more deftly than I was expecting. I suppose he must have learned to dance for his Victory Tour, like Peeta and I once learned for ours, and surely for the first few years of mentoring he would have danced with sponsors sometimes, before he started to withdraw from it all to lessen the pain of watching his tributes die over and over.  
I feel my chest tighten as I think all this. He notices my expression and starts to slow.  
'What's the matter?'  
'Nothing.' I don't want to stop – I don't want him to let go of me.  
He's looking at me closely. After a moment he nods, and now as we dance he draws me nearer, his hand now resting against the small of my back, and to be more comfortable I move my hand to the base of his neck, the ends of his hair brushing my fingers.  
I feel my thoughts dissolve in the dance, the music, the feel of our bodies moving together across the floor as one. All too soon the music breaks off and he brings us to a halt – but he doesn't let go of me.  
'Again?' he asks.  
I nod, relieved. But this time when we dance I can't hold back my thoughts, a growing sense of realisation. The way he's holding me to him, the look in his eyes as he'd drawn me closer – I know now that Johanna was right, that he left because he loved me, and he thought Peeta was better for me than he could be.  
I close my eyes, losing myself in the dance, the certainty that's taking root in me. This safeness, this closeness – this yearning – I've never felt this way before. And yet at the same time I know this feeling has been waiting inside me for months, since before he left 12.  
The song ends and we fall still. I open my eyes to find him watching me, as if he's trying to read my every emotion.  
'Come with me,' I tell him and he nods. He follows close behind me as I lead the way out of the function room, finding an empty room further down the main corridor.  
He closes the door and turns to me. 'Katniss –'  
But before he can say another word I step close and kiss him.  
My heart's in my throat as I pull back, waiting to see what he'll do, what he'll say, wondering if I'm wrong after all –  
Then his hands slide around my waist and he gathers me to him, his lips finding mine. My eyes close, every particle focusing on the feel of his mouth on mine, as warmth spreads through my body. I put my arms around his neck, pulling him closer. I've never wanted anyone so much, and yet all too soon he draws back, leaving me flushed and breathless.  
My blood is pounding in a collision of relief and elation and I can't keep from smiling as he cups my jaw with his hand, stroking my cheek with his thumb. I'd been so afraid – that I wouldn't get the chance to see him before he left – or that when I saw him I'd know that I'd been mistaken, that Johanna had been wrong after all. But those fears are forgotten now, put to rest by the way he watches me, absorbed, as his fingers slide into my hair, taking the back of my head in his hand.  
A frown creases his brow, and he hesitates to kiss me again. 'When I said those things in 12 –'  
'I know.'  
He's looking at me steadily, his attention unwavering.  
I swallow, gathering my words. 'Johanna – she said you left so I could be with Peeta.' There's so much more I could say. About Thurman's note, about how deep down I'd known all along he'd volunteered to come to 12 with me – about how much it hurt when he left and how much I missed him when he was gone. But one look at him tells me I don't need to – not now. There'll be time for talking later; if not tomorrow then next week, next month; next year.  
This time when he kisses me it's with a slow intensity that makes my head feel like it's about to burst.  
'Don't stop,' I say, when he pauses for breath.  
His eyes linger on my lips as he answers. 'Sweetheart, I don't intend to.' 


	16. Chapter 16

****

**Epilogue**

_Haymitch_  
He stands at the station in 5, waiting for his train to come. In seven hours he'll be in 12, with Katniss, and though he's already managed to bear three weeks without her somehow this last part of the waiting feels the worst. Like so many times since he said goodbye to her in the Capitol, he finds himself remembering the night they'd spent together after the reception, how it had felt to hold her, to kiss her.  
In the morning, as they'd lain together in her bed she'd put her face close to his. 'Come to 12 with me.' There was nothing he wanted more than to say yes – but there were too many people relying on him in 5, and he knew he had to tie up his responsibilities there before he could finally come to her.  
'Three weeks, sweetheart. Three weeks, and I'll be there.'  
'I'll hold you to that,' she'd said seriously, and he'd grinned before her kisses had made him forget to hold his smile.  
As always when he thinks of her he feels an ache of longing, a physical pain. More times than he can count he'd thought of quitting it all there and then, ordering the hovercraft Plutarch's put at his disposal and flying to 12. Now at last the job is finished and he's here at the station, watching the train approach, remembering watching Katniss walk towards him on this very platform, only three weeks ago. And yet now those three weeks feel like a lifetime.  
A familiar voice stirs him from his thoughts.  
'So, you're off after all. I can see I have no chance of persuading you to stay on.'  
'Bye, Plutarch.' Haymitch sticks out a hand and Plutarch shakes it genially. 'Working with you again wasn't as bad as I thought it would be.'  
Plutarch smiles. 'Be that as it may, I truly am grateful for your assistance. Your timely appearance prevented a nationwide blackout.'  
'Appearance. You're making it sound like I was the one to come after you.'  
'Well, as you've complained on many occasions, I'm too persistent for my own good.' Plutarch pauses, leaning back with a contemplative smile on his lips. 'To tell the truth, I was surprised when you accepted my offer after turning it down so many times. Part of me thought you'd stay in 12 and drink your life away.'  
Haymitch presses his lips together. 'You really pour the honey on. Then you lick it off.'  
Plutarch lets out a loud laugh, clapping Haymitch on the back. 'Well, I wish you all the best. Give Katniss my regards.' There's a glint in his eye and Haymitch quickly shakes his hand again and gets on the train. Looking out the window as the train starts to move, Haymitch sees Plutarch's still smiling to himself.  
Since they haven't had a chance to see each other in three weeks, and having parted discreetly in the Capitol, so far he and Katniss have managed to keep themselves out of the talk shows. Neither of them has told anyone apart from Peeta and Delly about their new relationship, and he hopes Plutarch will keep his suspicions to himself. One day the press is bound to get hold of the story, but until then he and Katniss intend to enjoy their privacy for as long as possible. And when the day does come, he reminds himself, it'll blow over quickly enough. 12 is too far from the Capitol for interest to run very long.

…

It's dark when the train pulls into 12. As he steps onto the snow-covered platform a figure comes forward: Katniss. Without a word they step into each other's arms. The platform is empty and he kisses her slowly. Her arms lock around his neck as she opens her mouth to his. He can sense her pain at being away from him so long, her joy that he's returned to her – emotions he shares with equal force, and knows he needs to be alone with her right now, somewhere private.  
He pulls back. 'Your place or mine?'  
Her teeth glint in the darkness. 'My place has a fire going.'  
They walk quickly up the path leading to Victors' Village. There's hardly anyone about.  
'Peeta sends his regards,' Katniss tells him. 'He says he'll come and say hi tomorrow.' She pauses. 'I think he wanted to let us be alone till then.'  
Haymitch suppresses a smile: the boy's tact knows no limits.  
As they start to climb the hill they see a figure heading away from Victors' Village but it's too dark to see who it is.  
All the houses but Katniss's are dark – Peeta's moved in with Delly and her brother in a house close to the hospital. They go inside, stamping off the snow, leaving his bags by the door, and head for the kitchen. Buttercup is curled up on the rocking chair and a fire burns in the grate. A pot of stew simmers on the stove and the table is set for two.  
He notices Katniss's look of surprise. 'Did you tell Sae I was coming?'  
She shakes her head, looking thoughtful and embarrassed at the same time. 'She must have guessed.'  
He smiles, winding his arm around her waist and drawing her to him. 'I missed you, too,' he murmurs against her lips.  
She wraps her arms around his neck. She's so close he can feel the steady beat of her heart against his chest.  
'Luckily stew can keep,' he murmurs in her ear and she laughs.

****

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I would love to hear from you: please leave a review :)  
> I've written a few other Haymiss stories which you can find on fanfiction.net. My username there is Nine Bright Shiners.


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